


Memoria in Aeterna

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dystopia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Rape as crime by non-canonical characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-22
Updated: 2009-08-22
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7179419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incendiary political debate had made Albus Potter, age fifteen, the victim of a hideous crime. Three years later, he was living a life of drugs and promiscuity in the rookery at Knockturn, the newly established Preservation District for the pure-blood families of Wizarding Britain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire, Wind and Earth — I. Ron

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE NOTE:** Rape of a major character by off-screen OCs is depicted. The description is brief and non-graphic, but may still be upsetting to some readers. It is NOT a non-con romantic element.
> 
> Written for melusinahp, 2009 hp_sas fest, and re-posted with minor edits for AO3 in June 2016. This fic holds a dear place in me, for the world described is very much my vision of Wizarding Britain, 19-years-later. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.

****

Part 1: Fire, Wind & Earth

__

Yet from those flames  
No light, but rather darkness visible  
Served only to discover sights of woe  
~ John Milton, Paradise Lost

  


——— I. Ron ———

  


Autumn rain pelted against cobblestones. Night crept in earlier by the day, its looming darkness only strengthened by the streetlamps, the dim flickers of which long lost among the flats that shadowed the streets below. 

Ron pulled his hood down further. He had passed the landmark of _Fire_ : sapphire flames lit the eyes of a dark bronze angel chained to the corbel, water seeping around a sword penetrated deep into its chest. It was the second Wednesday of the month, which meant the passageways of Knockturn were aligned in configuration number five. The tavern, therefore, should be two blocks down …

Children dashed out from a muddy path on his left, waving their wands to fend off a glowing marble and redirect it to their friends. It didn’t take long for a young boy to miss. The marble blossomed into a splatter of green on his chest.

“Score for me!” A girl yelled. “One _AK_!” She beamed, scuttling backwards as she surveyed the damage. She wore a hodgepodge of Muggle and wizard tatters. “A new game, yeah?”

Another marble soared from her palm. She turned abruptly to get a head start and Ron was too slow to look away. Her eyes widened and she mouthed to her friends. “Auror!”

The sound of splashes echoed in the alley. Soon the only memory of the fun and games was the fluorescing sphere in a puddle and the little boy on the verge of tears. 

The small hands tapped the splotch on his robe with a battered wand, one of those made of rough twigs and cheap feathers and sold for a Galleon or two in the marketplace, or the attic shops that marked the dead end of the former Knockturn Alley. 

“Father’s going to kill me,” he whispered.

Ron lowered his hood. “Come here, mate.” The boy hesitated for a moment, frowned at the stain again, before taking a wide step forward. Kneeling before him, Ron cast a _Scourgify_ at the robe, much too big for the tiny frame and frayed at the seams. From its thick blue velvet and lustrous trims, however, Ron knew it must have once cost a fortune. 

He ruffled the boy’s hair. “There. Good as new.”

“Thank you, Mr O… O …” A wide gap sat between the boy’s teeth as he scratched his head. “I’m Leo … Llewellyn Flint.” He tiptoed and stretched his hand, smeared with dirt, snot and dashes of green paint. Ron shook it. The boy grinned before he ran away, and Ron watched on until the shadow merged with the night.

~*~*~

The lamp on the porch blinked three times at the flicks of the Deluminator. Ron leaned against the empty crates of Ogden’s Old as he waited, watching the upper storeys of the building, each wider and heftier than the one below, sway in the evening storm.

The door opened with a creak.

“Ron Weasley here.”

“Thank Merlin.” A crack opened just wide enough to reveal a bearded man, the black crows tattooed on his forearm clear for Ron to see. “Please come in.” 

The stockroom was dark and cold. Crates of spirits and dry produce reached the ceiling, walling off the table and chairs at the corner into a space of its own. 

Ron declined the drink the tavern owner, Atherol, had offered him. “I heard there was a delivery of Romanian Longhorn horns yesterday.”

Atherol nodded. “I just caught wind of the news a few hours ago.” His eyebrows were so dark, his eyes so sunken that Ron could barely make out his focus, never mind his thoughts. “How many informants have the Aurors placed in Knockturn?”

“Enough. What do you know about it?”

Atherol had simply begun to guzzle straight from the Firewhisky bottle. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving drops of liquid glistening in his beard. “The shipment is, first of all, a small one.”

“How many owls?”

“Owls are too conspicuous, Auror Weasley. People in the trade … have their own means.” A crow on Atherol’s wrist cawed, daring Ron to question further.

“Multiple shipments? Is that possible?”

“I doubt the sellers would agree. The rules of black-market trade in Bucharest are quite similar to ours—the seller never delivers without receiving full payment, and they want the transactions done as quickly as possible once they get their Galleons.” 

“The buyer can pay them a load of money and they would do anything, you know.”

Atherol pursed his lips and stood. The wall before him opened to a window, providing a view to the pavement outside the tavern and across the street. This evening, the back entrance of the space that had used to be Borgin and Burkes was visible. It was still for rent, as it had been for the past year. Flyers selling various goods and services filled the window, their colours bleeding to create a soggy gray mosaic of tipping potion vials and unkempt, flirting witches. On the pavement stood an old woman, dressed in a style fashionable decades ago, enchanting cauldrons of various sizes to revolve in the air as a makeshift display. 

“If the buyer could afford that cost,” Atherol whispered, “he wouldn’t be in Knockturn.”

“But—”

“To be clear: the answer is no, these horns are not intended for illegal trade. There are few, if any, potential buyers here.” 

Ron rubbed his face. “The horns are now Class C non-tradables. The stakes are too high it if there’s no profit involved—”

“Lives.” Atherol paused. “Lives will be lost without them.”

 _Logic, Ron. Question the logic._ “St Mungo’s doesn’t import the horns, as far as I know.”

“And how long has it been since St Mungo’s provided proper care to a pure-blood patient? The buyer—”

Ron looked up. 

Atherol took a sip of Firewhisky and sank back into the chair. “We sent you the letter, Auror Weasley, because Auror Potter trusted you and you’re one of the few remaining on the beat who’s definitely on his side. It’s no surprise to us here why the Romanian horns have been reclassified to non-tradable: the healing potion against _proelium utrimque_ cannot be made without them. No child with the slightest trace of Muggle blood ever catches the disease.”

“That’s—” Ron took a breath, pulled a fresh bottle of Firewhisky from the crate beside him and poured himself a shot, “—the one you made your case by taking Harry to a patient.”

“Yes.” Atherol’s smile was bitter. “Seeing a child being torn apart slowly by his own magic makes an impression, yes? Especially when the parents knew it was the reciprocal rejection between their magic that was killing their son.” 

“You know Harry … his weak spot.”

“Who doesn’t? After all that …” The words caught and Atherol shook his head. Silence overtook the room as they each took a swig of the liquor. 

A new moon pierced though the receding storm clouds.

“I suppose you’re asking me to do the same thing as you asked him before. Let this slip, cover it up from the other Aurors, on the off chance they hear about it?”

His head lowered to a bow, Atherol cupped the bottle between his palms. “Knockturn is asking you a huge favour.”

There had to be a better solution. “What about trying St Mungo’s again? They must treat every wizard who shows up before the mannequin. I can be there with the children if it helps. The hospital can make things difficult—believe me, the admission staff’s rude to everyone.” 

The last drop of Firewhisky slipped down Atherol’s throat. “We’d thought so as well, until some of us died in the lobby ... ” He remained calm; only the unusual spark as he banished bottle gave away his anger. “Unfair treatment isn’t punishable by law, is it? And who are we to ask for fairness, when many of us did the same to Muggles?” He sighed. “We understand, Auror Weasley, if you—”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’ll do it. I just … I never have the same pull in the department as Harry.” 

Ron lifted his tumbler, but it never made it to his lips. A pair of young men appeared outside the tavern, their face blanched by the tavern sign. “Speaking of Harry…”

Atherol turned and followed Ron’s gaze. “His weak spot,” he whispered, his eyes fixed upon the couple bent at the waist with laughter between kissing and fondling. 

The candle expired with a quiet _Nox_. 

“The boy should’ve been the last wizard to seek refuge in Knockturn.”

~*~*~

A cloud of smoke always hovered inside the tavern, its shade and smell seemed to alter every night Ron had visited the joint. The place was strangely quiet for its number of patrons. The sounds from their moving lips were usurped by Silencing Charms, as were the noises of seamlessly sealed satchels being pushed against the rough wooden surfaces.

Knockturn Alley, a haven of outcasts—pure-bloods, once sympathizers of Voldemort, former inmates of Azkaban. The poor, the sick, the destitute. They were often one and the same. 

Ron pulled his hood up and zigzagged between the tables towards the doorway. 

“Al.”

His companion pinned him to the wall beside the door, nibbling on one of his earlobes. Ron willed himself to ignore the languid rutting of their lower bodies. In the dim light, the face that turned towards him looked almost identical to Harry’s, the dash of freckles sprinkled across the nose and above the cheeks lost in the haze. 

A bright smile, the perfect replica of Ginny’s, broke through. “Uncle Ron. Fancy seeing you here.” He pushed his friend slightly, urging him to turn towards Ron. “Hey, this is my uncle.”

His mate grinned and rested his head on Al’s shoulder. “Hullo, Uncle.”

Ron took a breath. “Al, I want to talk to you outside.”

“All right,” Al responded lightly. He pulled a chair from the corner of the room and his friend slumped upon it. “Wait here.” 

The night breeze outside the tavern was more than welcoming. Beside him, Al coughed again. Even under the piercing silver fire that framed the scorched wood carve of the tavern’s namesake—Corvus, Al looked barely a day older than fifteen, than the day when he'd been forever immortalized in the memory of the wizarding world. His hands deep in his jeans pockets, he stood, waiting.

It was then Ron realized he had no idea what to say. He cast a drying spell on Al’s robe and blurted the first question that came to mind. “Where’s your inhaler?” 

Only the slight hint of surprise flashed across Al’s face. He fished deeper into his jeans pockets, then methodically patted himself down. “Dunno.”

“You’re supposed to always have it with you.”

“You’re just like Dad.” The lazy smile never quite made it into the eyes. “Where is he?” He looked around. “On a mission?” 

“Your dad doesn’t go—”

The scent of exotic herbs permeated between them.

Ron stepped forward and looked into Al’s pupils. They were dilated. “Al,” Ron asked as evenly as he could, “what have you been smoking?”

The smile remained, an eerie bliss frozen on Al’s face as he shook his head. “Nothing, Uncle Ron.”

Ron dragged Al into the passageway from which he had entered the stock room and threw him against a stack of crates. “Al, answer me. What have you been bloody smoking? And who’s that bloke you’re with?”

The confrontation seemed to whittle away a thin slate of Al’s trance. “Just a Muggle fag,” he muttered, before the words heard from him too often and far from the truth. “I’m all right. No worries.”

Ron had little proof of otherwise. He let Al go. “The bloke?”

As if heeding the call, the bloke poked his head and peered into the alley. “Here you are …” he stumbled in, grinning, “… am randy.” His attempt to shove Ron aside only caused him to stagger and he collapsed against the crate beside Al. “Want a shag … from the great Harry Potter.”

“Oy. You’re saying—?”

Laughter ensued, then a slurred “the Chosen cock … in my arse.”

Auror rulebook be damned. Ron inched his wand impossibly close to the bloke, who, unfortunately, appeared to be so beyond intoxicated that he neither noticed or cared. “My father used to say, oh, he’s so fucked by Harry Potter.” The young face pulled backward to force a double chin as he bellowed the complaint. “Now I can tell him the same.” He snorted, turned and tried to cup Al's face with his palm; it turned into a misplaced slap. 

Rather than backing away, Al moved to face him and sniggered. “I’ve got the glasses—”

“That’s it,” Ron pulled the two men apart and twisted the bloke’s arms behind his back. “Al, you’re going home.”

“We’re on a date.” 

A side of Al’s robe had been pulled open. His shirt inside was untucked and Ron could see a small stretch of the scar that traced the right hip. “I don’t care. Go home.”

Al exhaled, which sharpened into another small cough. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll Apparate him to his place first.”

“Forget it.”

“Look—” nodding towards the young man half-heartedly struggling in Ron’s grasp, Al pleaded, “—he can’t make it back himself.”

 _He’s Harry’s kid. Always has been._ “I’ll take him. Who is he? Where does he live?” 

Al stared at the ground and tapped the tip of his boot against an empty bottle in a puddle. 

Ron took a breath. “Shouldn’t be hard to work out. Where did you pick him up?”

Teeth worrying his lips for a moment, Al finally whispered, “Down a few blocks, by the slug-repellent stall.”

Ron half-dragged, half-kicked the other bloke out of the alley. Just before he made the exit, he turned and said, “You know, I’m still waiting for you to beat me again in wizard chess.” 

“I will. Some day.” Al shrugged and smiled. 

As Ron headed back towards Knockturn Alley, he heard the lonesome tinkle of a rolling bottle, followed by a light crash as the glass shattered into pieces.

  


~ Memory: Ronald Weasley ~

  


> The shards of the bishop lay splattered on the wooden plank floor of the greenhouse. Al made no effort to clean it up, his face grey as the skies looming over Hogwarts.
> 
> “Everything’s fine, Uncle Ron.” Sitting across the chessboard with his knees huddled against his chest, Al answered for the third time. The long, delicate vine flowing beside him turned red as his fists squeezed it even tighter. 
> 
> Ron gathered the glass-dust, evidence of his nephew sabotaging the game he had once loved and excelled at. 
> 
> “Al.” He tried to look into his nephew’s eyes, but the long black fringe was in the way. “Even dragon pox couldn’t get you to stop winning, and you look about as fine as your dad at your age. That’s when he had an evil git chasing after him.” 
> 
> The chess pieces formed a legion on the game-board and marched back into an antique rosewood case. They had always been Al’s treasure. 
> 
> “How’re things between you and Chris? He’s staying here for the summer too, I suppose?”
> 
> Eyes remained downcast, Al barely shook his head. “We aren’t together any more.”
> 
> That explained it. Teenagers these days couldn’t handle a little heartbreak. Rose and even Hugo had their own share of romantic adventures, leaving his cottage quiet for the summer. Ron had only dropped by Hogwarts to discuss a possible endorsement from McGonagall on blocking the Heritage Preservation Act, gaining steam once again with the newly-elected members of the Magical Parliament. 
> 
> Since when and how many times had that measure been sent to the floor and debated? Ten, fifteen years ago maybe, when the Gringotts investments in the Muggle financial market had gone sour? 
> 
> It was a matter of time before the pure-bloods would have to surrender their wealth to the Ministry, all in the name of reparations for a war that had ended years ago and long after the Gringotts crisis had been resolved. A public ballot, the eye of the political storm proposed by the measure, would secure that outcome; blatant accusations and harassment of the wizards on their side meant there would be insufficient votes in the Parliament to block it soon. 
> 
> Their children, Al included, would be navigating in a world ruled by Pounds and Euros—
> 
> “OWL results will be back in a week. Reckon you did all right?” At fifteen, Ron would rather have thrown himself into Devil’s Snare than to talk about his love life with anyone. 
> 
> Al shrugged. The scarlet leaves crackled and broke away from the vine, rocking gently as they sank to the ground.
> 
> Ron stood and patted the dirt off his jeans. He handed the chess set to Al, who reached for it—shards of broken leaves still stuck to his palm—and cramped it into the space between his bent knees and chest. For a summer day, Al wore a lot of clothes. Too much. Sweat beads wept from his dark hair onto the soaked collars of a t-shirt and robe. 
> 
> But then, three decades of friendship later, certain things about Harry has continued to baffle Ron; his tendency to self-torment was one of them. “Send home an owl or two every now and then. I swear your dad’s getting taller from peering out the window as often as he does.” Why didn’t he write his son, ask for an update—with a howler, if that helped—and be done with it? 
> 
> “You can write me, too,” he added, fully aware that the chance of it happening was slim to none. “Promise I won’t say anything to your parents.”
> 
> Al nodded, staring at the new buds sprouting from the vine, his face failing to show the slightest hint of expression.
> 
> *
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Ron made good of his promise upon returning to Ottery St Catchpole. Unable to shake off the ill-ease weighing upon his chest since the afternoon with Al, he lay on his bed that night, trying to dissuade himself from waking Hermione and telling her what he had seen. She would, undoubtedly, spread the word to Harry and Gin.
> 
> He recalled the wreck that was Al's dad in his fifth year and managed to fall asleep chanting three words in his head. 
> 
> _Bloody Potter hormones._  
> 

  
  
  


 


	2. Fire, Wind and Earth — II. Ginny

———II. Ginny———

  


The wooden scrub fell aside from the frying pan in the sink. A twist of the faucet popped the bubbles and washed them away.

“Harry, I’m supposed to do the washing.” Ginny pulled her hair back and knotted it into a bun. She was still in her sleeping gown, but her husband was already in his Auror uniform. She began to spell the dried plates back into the cabinets.

“The cooking didn’t take much time, so I figured …” Harry took a sip of pumpkin juice. “Come here, Gin. Eat first.” He patted the chair beside him. Her plate was already on the table right beside his own, joined at the rim despite the size of the table. 

It was, after all, meant for a family of five. 

She seated herself beside her husband, kissed his cheek lightly and whispered, “good morning.” Harry smiled.

“Up early?” Ginny asked, as if she didn't know the answer. Harry nodded. His pudding had been mutilated beyond recognition. “Forgot to let Elvy in again last night?”

“Yeah.”

“The Kneazle can do without a meal of two,” Ginny said with a laugh, “Crookshanks’ like a kitten beside him.”

Harry placed his fork down and pushed his plate aside. 

Ginny knew what he was about to say. 

“Al came by and fed him.” 

“Oh,” she answered, feigning surprise. “He took off again?” She put her fork down as well and poured tea for herself and Harry. He cradled the cup between his palms; Ginny watched the whirlpool in her cup swallow the sugar cubes within.

“Most of the treats weren’t in the bowl … the trail of them went all the way around to the cupboard.” He turned to her. “Elvy never leaves a mess like that.” 

Ginny rested a hand beneath her chin. “Not that Al ever does, either. If he did, his El would never have grown so big.” 

Al had named their pet Elvendork when he’d been a toddler, no doubt having overheard the name from a conversation; Al the boy and El the Kneazle had been inseparable ever since.

That was, until —

Harry’s thoughts must have matched Ginny’s own. His frown had returned, the furrows deeper and pained Ginny more than the lightning scar.

“What worries me too, Gin,” Harry continued with a sigh as he tucked the loose strands of Ginny’s hair behind her ear, “is that there weren’t any wooden shavings. He always carries some of those into the house.”

The tea flooding onto her tongue scorched her. “Maybe he’s not working on the brooms.”

“I—” Harry drained his tea with a squint. “I reckon I should stop by Quality Quidditch before heading to work.”

He pushed back his chair. Ginny tugged on his sleeve. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“Not hungry.” Harry smiled weakly and landed a soft peck on her lips. She seized the moment to slip out of her chair and straddled his lap. 

Arms circled around his neck, Ginny looked into her husband’s eyes. “You know, Harry, I was thinking about last night.” 

Two decades of marriage later, Harry still blushed. 

“Momentum, you see,” she lowered her voice and touched her forehead against Harry’s, “is all about speed, weight. You’re absolutely fantastic in the speed department.” She sent him a salacious smile as her breakfast moved to the spot on the table in front of them. “The weight, though, can always use some work.”

Her husband broke into a chuckle and looked away, the tinge of embarrassment spreading down his neck. Ginny spun his face with a finger to meet her own and nodded towards the plate. With a fake roll of eyes, Harry picked up his fork and began to eat.

~*~

It was a half-hour later when the glow of the Floo powder subsided in the fireplace. Ginny cleared the kitchen table, thankful for once of the chore as the splash of water tore through the silent hum in the house. Sparkling droplets rained upon a folded parchment propped against the wall on the counter. She’d received the owl a day before—an invitation for her to rejoin the Harpies on an exhibition tour this coming winter. Now that Al only came home to shower and change and James and Lily had settled to a new life across the ocean ….

Ginny stared at the two plates, one empty and other almost untouched; crumpling the letter into a ball with her fist, she used it to shove the remains of the breakfast into the rubbish bin.

  
  


~ Memory: Ginevra Potter ~ 

> The dishes on the rack rattled. Harry’s pacing came to an abrupt stop.
> 
> “What did you say?” 
> 
> Ginny was sitting at the table in her nightgown. Neither had been able to sleep. “I said—and I’m saying, begging you once again—“ she whispered, “Harry, let it go. Please.” 
> 
> “Let it go? Let _them_ go?” Harry’s voice was hoarse, strained. “After all they did?” His footsteps drew nearer. 
> 
> “I want them locked up as much as you do.” Ginny tried to calm her harsh breaths. She would not be afraid, not of the man she loved. “But please, please don’t descramble Al’s Memory. Or at least, let him make his own choice.”
> 
> “His choice?” Harry scoffed. “Have you seen him, Gin? He’s sleepwalking. He has no idea what’s going on around him. His seventeenth birthday is next month and after that, we can no longer sign the subpoena on his behalf, even if we want to, even if the charges may be dropped without his Memory as key evidence. And he remembers what happened that night—” 
> 
> “—in bits and pieces and it’s not the same.” She chewed her lip and summoned her courage. “Imagine if you saw Sirius’ or Cedric’s death in snapshots, incomplete and all scrambled. Don’t you think it would've been easier on you?”
> 
> Harry’s eyes lit with rage. Ginny could tell, even in the darkness. The fury had never left since they had received the owl jointly signed by Hooch and McGonagall, blinding Harry as it burned through his reason. Her husband had become obsessed, his magic destabilized by the constant upheaval of his temper. 
> 
> Ginny crossed her arms on the table and felt the wand strapped under her sleeve. Harry had stopped touching her since they'd learned the news. It made the stowing convenient—
> 
> —and all the more heartbreaking. How did the two of them, still sharing the same bed, begin to fight their battles alone? Against each other?
> 
> “I’ve lived.” Leaning towards her with his one hand on the table, Harry’s face inched close. It was gaunt, yet powerful and haunting as the nightmare that had consumed them. “Al will too, and he'll never forgive himself if these people get away and end up doing the same thing to someone else. He’s my son—“
> 
> “And mine!” Ginny's control slipped. “He’s my son too, Harry! This is why I can be selfish; this is why I can say fuck this, let these people shove their cock up everyone else’s arse and sell the Memory to the universe if they wish to!” Ginny swallowed the sob at her throat. She had never cried before Harry and was not about to. Especially now. “I don’t give a damn, Harry. I just want this over.”
> 
> At her plea, Harry had taken a step back, the tablecloth pulled askew in his clenched fist. 
> 
> “Is this …” Harry looked and sounded dazed, but Ginny knew better. The slivers of grey on his temples were throbbing. “Is this really what you think?”
> 
> Ginny’s fingers crept into her sleeve and closed against her wand. She nodded. “It’s the best—”
> 
> “Choosing what’s easy over what’s right?” 
> 
> The vase on the table toppled. Water drowned the lilies they'd picked in the garden. 
> 
> “What’s easy and what’s right doesn’t have to be different.” Ginny tried to calm her voice. “It’s far from perfect, I know, but families—”
> 
> “Don’t lecture me on families!” 
> 
> “I have to, because ours is falling apart, because I don’t want to risk any of what’s left!” She was yelling and didn’t care. The vase crashed beside her bare feet. “I know what justice means to you, Harry, and it means a world to me. But families aren’t fairy tales. There will be regrets; I can’t tell you how many times Mum had wished to have grounded Fred for one reason or another before the battle. There will be mistakes; things that turn out completely wrong. Remember Percy? We make do—” It was then Ginny realized she'd broken into tears, after all. “—because that’s what families do. We stick together and we move on.” 
> 
> She opted to face Harry. Now that her tears had fallen, she wanted her husband to see each and every one of them. “Al is just beginning to recover. The full Memory will drive him away from us for good. Lils—she’s too young to be out there alone. And James … giving up everything just to take care of her.” _And you, Harry—_
> 
> “I know what families are, Gin.” But Harry saw nothing. Nothing but criminals and chains on their wrists. “I’m protecting mine—“
> 
> “From how far a distance? Like your parents?“
> 
> Ginny knew she had crossed the line. She closed her eyes, prepared for the worst. 
> 
> But then a _Pop_ sounded, louder than any Apparition Ginny had ever heard, and Harry was gone.
> 
> She fell back onto the chair and wiped her face dry. The faint shadow of her hands made her realize a soft light had been shining behind her.
> 
> “I didn’t know you two are fighting over this,” Al whispered, leaning against the doorway, his wand held upright like a candle. “I can sign that form anytime.”
> 
> All Ginny could manage was to shake her head. 
> 
> “No worries, Mum,” he came to her side, bent down and began to pick up the pieces of the broken vase. His feet were bare like hers. “It’s gonna be all right.”  
> 

  
  
  


 


	3. Fire, Wind and Earth — III. Rolanda

———III. Rolando Hooch———

  


Rolanda Hooch roused the Snitch with the words “QUALITY QUIDDITCH. OPEN.” etched on its golden exterior; it spread its wings and zoomed merrily at the shop entrance. The helper she had hired for the past four months had not shown for almost a week. 

With a flick of her wand, light cascaded from the torches on the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to open them to the older version of her missing helper peeking into the shop. 

The father had yet to find out then. Swallowing a sigh, Rolanda sheathed her wand back into her hoister and dusted off her robe. The Snitch whizzed about at the prospect of a guest, who soon entered the shop with the cold morning breeze. 

“Al … isn’t here.” Harry Potter posed his question as a quiet statement. His son’s missing magical signature must be obvious to him.

“Hasn’t been for six days.”

This could not be unexpected. Al had drifted from shop to shop down the alley for the past year, hired as acts of good will and gratitude to his father. His employment at Quality Quidditch had already been the longest; he had stayed in Flourish and Blotts for less than a week.

“I’m so sorry.” Harry apologized. Rolanda’s chest tightened. “Did he owe you any pay? Anything?” He was already fishing for his moneybag.

“Oh no,” she lied, “I paid him by the week.”

He nodded. “All right.” They stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence. “Thank you for taking him in all this time.” He turned to leave.

Rolanda supposed she should remind him. “Al was brilliant.”

Harry looked back at her, shook his head and smiled. The doorknob squeaked as it turned.

“You’ve known me for three decades, give or take. You know I’m a harsh judge when it comes to Quidditch but I'm telling you this. Al is born to be a race broom designer—”

“Madam Hooch.” The eyes behind the spectacles only looked sadder, more resigned. “Al never played a game, remember? Asthma, magical exertion induced.” His voice fell towards the end. He turned again.

Of course she remembered. “ _Accio_ prototype.” Harry’s departure stalled at the soft whoosh of a handmade broom darting into the showroom. “Mr Potter. Look at this.”

The hand that reached for the broom in the air shook slightly. Rolando watched the calloused fingers feel the curve of the broomstick, the assortment of twigs from different trees that intertwined into a perfectly aerodynamic tail. 

“He’d taken some stock material in the workshop and played with them between helping in the shop. Hadn’t said a word until I found this in a pile of rotten wood.”

She took a seat on the carpeted platform of the display window and gestured Harry to do the same. “I don’t know how to say this in a roundabout manner, so I’m not gonna try. What I want to tell you is—you’ve done more than enough.”

Harry merely reached out and in one clean motion plucked the whizzing Welcome Snitch from the air.

“You’ve opened doors for him. You’ve shown him where his talents are and he’s too clever not to notice. He’s eighteen. How he chooses to live his life is now entirely up to him.”

“He never finished Hogwarts … or NEWTS.”

“You didn’t, either.”

Harry set the Snitch free. For a moment, he seemed hypnotized by its flight. “He hasn’t even got his OWLs. What is he going to do? I’m his dad, if—”

“Listen.” Rolanda turned and sat on one knee before her former student. “Al will come about, but he has to do it in his own terms. What he went through—“

Harry stood abruptly. 

“I know what he went through.” His voice was still quiet, but the echoes of his boots against the floor was loud and heavy. “That was three years ago.” His hand grabbed the doorknob, then he drew a breath and faced Rolanda again with a feeble smile. “Please … excuse my temper. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” 

The door opened and closed with a swing. The broom prototype, unable to fight the gust, rolled down the platform and hit the floor. 

She picked it up. The inscription Al had etched the base the handle felt rough against her fingers. 

_Lightning_.  
  
  
  


~ Memory: Rolanda Hooch ~ 

> Rolanda had spotted a few of these, a glint of light changing hands outside the locker rooms before and after Quidditch lessons. 
> 
> She weighed the glass cylinder on her palm and watched the white ribbons of smoke spiraling inside. The silver knobs on its two ends shone dimly in the torch light. She knew what it was; she had read in the _Prophet_ about how the MemorSpin had taken the wizarding world by storm. The bottled memories they could play on a water screen—much like memories in a Pensieve—meant one could share his life’s adventures. Or sell them, as the more business-oriented among them had discovered quickly. She hoped the owner of this memory would not mind her glimpsing of a scene or two of his life.
> 
> Madame Rosmerta, in her flowing dress, descended the wooden stairs.
> 
> “The Spin’s ready for you.” She handed a key to Rolanda. “It’s quite a hit. Thinking of buying one yourself?”
> 
> “A student dropped this in class.” Rolanda showed her the cylinder she was carrying. “Just want to find out who it belongs to.”
> 
> Madame Rosmerta tilted her head and took a close look. “That’s …” She squinted at a small line indented at the catch between the silver and the glass. “You know, I’ve been trying to find out what the numbers mean. I keep overhearing double o-nine something these days. Do let me in on what the fanfare’s all about, will you? Merlin knows, maybe it’s the memory of a backup banshee stirring Celestina’s cauldron full of hot, strong love.” She laughed, her bosom threatening to burst the seams of the lowcut. “Dinner’s the usual? I’ll bring it up for you in a half hour.”
> 
> Rolanda nodded.
> 
> The dinner catered to her later was not touched. Instead, most of her earlier meals ended up on the carpet. 
> 
> She knew the location. It was an unmarked room on the third floor, where the Mirror of Erised had been stored for years. She also knew the victim, the second child of the Potters who'd just shocked everyone by failing all of his OWLS. The prefect’s badge on his summer robe indicated the scene must have occurred just months ago. She also knew most of the aggressors. She'd lost count after twenty—
> 
> —And she could swear to Merlin that she and the other teachers had never touched the boy. Not in that way. Nor had the ghosts from the second war, from both the Dark and the Light, returned to the school to do so.
> 
> Once the last yarn of the Memory had torn away from the small water screen, Rolanda yanked the cylinder off the MemorSpin, shrunk them both to fit in her pocket and left all the Galleons she had with her in the room. Remembering Dumbledore’s last journey, she grabbed a broomstick from the closet and the towering heights of Hogwarts—suddenly looking ominous—soon appeared before her.  
> 

  
  
  


 


	4. Fire, Wind and Earth — IV. Kaelyn

 

——— IV. Kaelyn ———

 

“Mr Potter?”

The overnight visitor, wrapped in a blanket on the camp bed, didn’t stir. Kaelyn wanted to sweep the hair aside to see that legendary scar, but she didn’t dare. She tapped on his shoulder instead.

The eyes opening before her were much greener than on the chocolate frog cards she’d kept in her living quarters.

“Mr Potter … I mean the one there, your son.” Merlin. She was babbling already. “Mediwizard Hughes said he’s due to wake up in half an hour.”

“Thank you.” Her hero’s voice was still thick with sleep.

Kaelyn would melt into a pile of goo if she didn’t speak up soon. “I’ve brought some breakfast for you. I, um, I … consider it my treat.” She swallowed. A million ants danced the conga on her scalp. “St Mungo’s food isn’t known to be the best, but I reckon that the room’s going to be like a circus later...”

Harry Potter shrunk the camp bed back into a chair and folded up the blanket while she made a fool of herself. He picked up his glasses from the bedside table. “That’s very kind of you … Kaelyn. Am I right?”

 _Yes yes yes yes yes._ It barely registered as a squeak.

“Thanks for the food and watching Al through the night.” Harry then saw the extra tray. “That’s—"

“I don’t know if Mrs Potter is coming in.”

“She is, in a bit. She went home to make soup. Your shift should be over by now, right? Have you eaten? Would you like to join me?”

Kaelyn would be sorted to the morgue if someone checked her vital signs. The trays took off smoothly and a chair in the corner of the room glided towards her without a screech.

“Kaelyn, may I ask you a few questions?”

 _Yes, I’ll marry you and have your babies._ She grabbed the fork and stuffed a sausage into her mouth, her head bobbing stupidly.

“Have there been any patients from the rookery lately? Besides Al?”

It was strange, how many thoughts could zoom through her head all at once. “No…” then “… yes.”

Harry held his gaze.

Grinding her wrists against the tray did nothing to quell her drumming pulse. “The Knockturn folks have their own Mediwizard, I suppose, a really good one too. I haven’t seen them in the wards. But—“ She needed to scratch her head. Forgetting the knife she was holding, her hand stopped awkwardly in mid-air, “—we’ve got a few people from outside the rookery who got sick there, then sent here by Knockturn.”

“Like Al?”

“Yes …” she answered, then “… no”.

Harry smiled and took a small bite of the pudding. “Sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable? It’s all right if you'd like to focus on your breakfast.”

“No, it’s fine.” More than fine. “They all came in with some sort of overdose.” Harry’s eyes were downcast for moment; to hear that description associated with his child must have hurt. “But Mr Potter’s the only one without the Horcrux.”

“Horcrux?” Harry’s frown lines deepened.

Merlin, should she have told him? If her seniors found out—

But he _was_ Harry Potter. He could do no wrong.

“Promise not to tell?” When Harry nodded, she continued. “Starting a year ago, maybe, very sick people began to show up at the hospital’s back door. Always unconscious, wrapped head to toe in black. And they have this pouch tied around their necks with a red ribbon with two vials inside: one’s the Horcrux, the other its antidote. Oh, and a small scroll.”

“Horcrux was a poison?”

“That’s a yes and no, too.” Kaelyn was swelling with pride. She's talking sense in the face of perfection—

—At which she had been waving her knife for the last minute. Her hands fell out of sight to wrestle with the hem of her robe. “They're addicts of other stuff to begin with. We have their records. But then, they all came here hooked on the Horcrux and nothing else. The scroll had the instructions on how to wean them out.”

“So it’s good?” Harry’s fork paused at his lips as he looked at her. “Or is it another yes and no?”

Kaelyn couldn’t help a victorious grin as she nodded. He'ss really listening! “It’s creepy, though, the whole thing. You’ve got to see the instructions. They’re convoluted—one drop of the potion at a specified hour, then three drops of antidote in exactly two minutes, administered at different sites and mixed with five or six healing potions in our supply. The list went on for weeks. The mediwizards tried to simplify the steps, but that … turned out awfully.”

Covered with sores and their sanity teetering on the edge, the patients had begged Kaelyn, promised her everything for one drop of the Horcrux. The withdrawal was nothing like she had ever seen.

It was a Horcrux all right. The addicts held on to it like a lifeline.

Harry had leaned back into the chair, his thumbs absentmindedly rubbing the condensates on his glass. “But nobody’s ever heard of it before?”

Kaelyn’s heart sank. He couldn’t be doubting her, could he? “I couldn’t have told you all this if I’m outside the hospital. There’s a sort of charm to keep this a secret.”

A flash of indignation. “They placed a spell on you for this?”

“The mediwizards didn’t want anyone to know of such a drug out there. It’s Dark, they said.” Kaelyn shrugged. “But they’re embarrassed too, I think. Someone in the slums know medicine better than they do.”

Her courage found a boost in Harry’s smile. “Worse for them, the scrolls were always signed ‘Compliments from Knockturn’. That’s how we knew the patients were from there.”

“Were there other evidences? Sure the mediwizards would want to know everything about the Horcrux. Did the patients say anything about it?”

Right. How could she have forgotten? “They'd ventured into Knockturn, the mediwizards. But you know, it’s a maze in there, so they lost their nerves and got out.” Egomaniacs and cowards. “As for the patients, they never seemed to remember a thing about their treatment … among other things. It’s—” She paused to think of a fitting description, her mind ticking in sync with the clock on the far wall, the hour hand moving steadily from _Stable_ towards _Up & Running_ “It’s like a chunk of their life has been taken away from them. But it’s not always bad. One lady couldn’t remember the terrible things she’d done to feed her drug habit. Sometimes, though …”

She snickered. One incident had totally made her day. “There’s this really rude bloke who woke up completely forgetting about his wife and clamoured about owling his mistress. He wound up one floor up with a certain, um, anatomy missing.”

A soft chuckle echoed her own. Harry was watching her with a slight tilt of his head, his amusement hidden behind the back of his fingers.

There, she’d done it. She had said something totally inappropriate before the great Harry Potter.

“Served him right, I’d say.” Heat rising to her cheeks, she hastily helped herself to the heap of baked beans.

When Kaelyn dared to lift her eyes again, Harry was looking out the window, his spectacles offering an otherworldly reflection of the drifting snow outside. Mesmerized and, well, hopelessly in love, Kaelyn stared and forked the remaining Merlin knew what into her mouth.

The most memorable moment of her life was cut short by a ruffling sound from the bed.

They must have heard it at the same time. It was Kaelyn’s job instinct, perhaps, that made her drop her silverware and stand, all of a sudden hyperaware of every motion, every sentiment in the room.

So it did not escape her that while Harry had remained still, a subtle jolt had run past his hand and sped his heart and breathing. It did not escape her either that while a tinge of relief had settled upon his face, the gleam in the green irises was hardening into frost.

Still, when he grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair, saying, once again, “Mrs Potter will be here soon” and “thank you”, Kaelyn was too astonished to say a word. She watched him walk briskly to the door and open it and for a moment, expected it would shut with a bang. Story hours on the Wireless had taught her that angry and concerned parents, wizard or Muggle alike, made their point by slamming every door in their way.

But then, the door spun closed with a quiet yawn and somehow, it only made her feel worse.

 

  
  
  
~ Memory: Kaelyn (Flint) ~  


 

> The dark, filthy alley behind St Mungo’s was Kaelyn’s birthplace. She’d been found there as an infant, cloaked in heavily embroidered, lush blue velvet.
> 
> Her family must be pure-bloods. _Death Eaters_ , the mediwizards had hinted not so subtly.
> 
> Still, every now and then, she would take her break on the steps of the hospital’s backdoor, imagining the moment she’d been left there. She'd never had company, until that one time a ghost, crowned with silver and dressed in scarlet—the same shade worn by embalmed wizards in their tombs—appeared and vanished into a side passageway.
> 
> She’d found the first Knockturn patient soon after, had been on the look-out for them and attended to them in the wards ever since.
> 
> Her daydreams on the steps had since morphed into adventures of the ghost—young, mischievous and definitely dashing—stealing prisoners of Death and resurrecting them for the fun of it.
> 
> Yes, Kaelyn had always dreamed of Saviours.
> 
> Two years later, the ghost appeared again. He's still in scarlet and his crown, as it turned out, was the lightest shade of blond Kaelyn had ever seen. On his shoulder was a small body, much like the ones she'd taken in but was swathed in red silk.
> 
> Saviours were not immune from distress. For minutes he stood before her, his lips quivering but unable to utter a word. She took his hand, led him to the kitchen and fed him biscuits and tea.
> 
> Seated at the chipped, greasy table, he revealed between bites and stares that the little boy’s parents were no longer in the rookery. Kaelyn was the only other relative that he knew of.
> 
> Their hands remained linked as he told her about her family, his holding onto hers as if he would never let her go. Maybe it was the stove fire, maybe it was his jacket; a tinge of pink had painted his cheeks.
> 
> She could call him Scazza, he said finally.
> 
> Or, if she’d like, Scorpius.

 

  
  



	5. Fire, Wind and Earth — V. Harry

——— V. Harry ———

  


The black fortress stretched for miles. A wilted tree stood in its shadow, a ring of eight dried corpses dangling from its thickest branch. Each body hung inverted, its hands tugging a silver bell hung from its neck. 

To most wizards, it was a windchime of Inferi.

Harry threw a rucksack on his shoulder, tidied his long, ginger-coloured polyjuiced hair from under the straps and made certain that there're no passers by. This, he admitted, was a truly clever design for a landmark, but—

He located the corpse with lipstick on the other side with a turn of the ring, took a breath and kissed it.

The corpse opened its eyes and winked at him. Behind it, the fortress shook and crumpled. Noises roared into his ears—shouts, swear words, percussions. 

_Wind_ , the newest, rowdiest and as Ron would say, looniest, quadrant, appeared before his eyes.

The streets were aligned in configuration seven, being the third Monday of the month. First he passed by the marketplace, where one could find most of the goods supplied in Diagon Alley—only cheaper and less authentic—before making his way towards the heart of _Wind_. 

The sand in the air was blinding. Built within a fortnight, the wizards had chosen the easiest to access material to make the mudbrick boxhouses, each no more than two storeys high. Self-propelled lorries clogged the streets while pedestrians travelled on rooftops, connected by moving bridges. Harry ducked the hexes from brawling wizards and smacks of bridges fighting for right-of-way.

The pub was impossible to miss. Explosions fired under the hoofs of an erumpent on the sign, while jets of mist spurted from its horn. Dashing through a raining curtain of sparks, Harry circumvented the crowd and slinked towards a small corner table.

A chandelier of flames hung low from a beam. The noise was deafening, the patrons more or less grouped by their activities. The ones by the window were gambling on live action chess. Those near the center, mostly couples, were in the heat of their own games. The customers on the inside, where Harry sat, came mostly to get smashed—they hollered their orders of food and alcohol between insults. 

It was a perfect spot to watch Al’s first day of work in Knockturn.

The waiters were outrageously costumed. The pub’s selling point, Harry knew. It didn’t take much to work out—

Indeed. “Harry Potter! When are you going to bring me my bloody beer?” 

And there he was. The makeshift Saviour of the wizarding world appeared behind the bar, pointed his wand at a frothing butterbeer on the countertop and aimed it to the customer. “Coming!”

“Yo! Chosen One! Where are my chops?” another wizard called out.

A familiar _blimey_ expression appeared on Al’s face. The low gate of the bar area swung open and Al ran into the kitchen.

The dash was quick, but enough for Harry to see the jeans beneath the white shirt. Brown leather cords crisscrossed on the two sides from the waist, hips and thighs … all the way down to the ankles, drawing attention to the bare skin underneath. 

Harry flopped against his chair. His heart had yet to settle when already, he felt danger. Malice. He turned around to look.

It emanated from a large wizard, who had just seated himself between the centre and inside sections. His eyes were fixated upon Al.

The gleam was one of recognition. Lust. The same look that, in countless attic shops, had immediately turned into horror when Harry pressed his wand against its owner’s throat.

The lunch crowd was subsiding. The wizard swapped his table with another in an empty recess, then bellowed his order to the _Boy who Lived_. 

Harry tightened his grip on his wand as he studied the area. The wizard’s back was facing the rest of the pub and in front of his table was the corridor to the backrooms. He could easily shove Al in there and no one would notice. 

Slipping out of the bench, Harry stumbled his way swiftly in that direction with a pained look on his face, bending as if urgently needing the washroom. 

Al came out of the kitchen with a heavy skillet and was carrying it towards the table. The man stood.

Harry was still meters away. He leaned further forward and lowered himself to a squat. His wand was steady as he pointed it ahead, aiming a hex at the man’s feet— 

A loud pop. Harry looked up, couldn’t help but straighten.

He was not the only one. Everyone in the pub was gaping. The noise died off and the crowd fell into a trance as seconds passed. 

The large wizard, meanwhile, was staring upwards in slow motion—from the table up the knee-high dragon hide boots and leather trousers, then the long scarlet cloak and finally, a pale face framed by silver-blond hair.

Someone by the window stuck a finger in his mouth and blew a loud whistle. The crowd, as if on cue, broke into a chorus—

“Scazza! Scazza! Scazza! …”

Scorpius Malfoy hushed them and spun dramatically, only to stagger a small step. He tapped the skillet lightly with the tip of his boot to shove it aside.

“You must be new here.” Hands on his waist, he made his drawl loud and clear. “Don’t you know the Malfoys have sole proprietary of Potter’s arses—big, medium, small, and not to say, polyjuiced?”

The patrons roared with laughter and struck their wands against their mugs in approval. The man, dumbfounded, shook his head.

“Well, now you know. _The Skrewts_ , the finest escort service in town, will cater to your every need.”

“I…” the man stuttered, “I’m not a poof!”

“Oh?” Scorpius tilted his head and paced the small table, his eyes never leaving the wizard who was double his size. The man, seeing this as his chance for rebuttal, opened his mouth—

Fast as wind, Scorpius knelt down on one knee, grabbed the man at the jaw and kissed him.

“Scazza! Scazza! Scazza!” The chant was even louder than before.

Scorpius leapt onto the floor, waved his wand and the table slid away in a loud screech. Fists were soon pounding against every piece of furniture with glee, as Scorpius yanked his victim by the arm and swung him a half-circle to face the crowd. The man tried in vain to cover his bare erection with his hands.

“I beg to differ,” Scorpius concluded in a toothy grin. “Now take your lunch and go away.” He nodded at the table; the skillet had somehow been wrapped up, adorned with white laces and a large pink ribbon. “I need to feed my harem.” 

He began to do a headcount on a group of young but scantly-clad witches by the window, heeding no more attention to the re-attired man stomping his escape from the still guffawing customers, with the frilly package clipped under his arm. The bald pub owner waddled on his heels, half-heartedly apologising. “You know Scazza’s a bit … eccentric—“ Harry heard “—but who’d say a word to him these days? He’s a … you know, for Merlin’s sake …” 

At the same time, Al had finally stepped forward. “Scorpius?” 

“Scazza.” Scorpius corrected him without turning. 

Still sniggering and obviously unaffected by the latest event, Al wondered softly, “Is that all right? He’s still a customer.”

“And I’m still the lord of your arse. And you’re still a prat to go so near him.”

“I was careful. I couldn’t presume he would do something awful if he—” 

“Albus Potter,” Scorpius cut him off with a dismissive wave, “with your surname and your _history_ , you might as well charm yourself into a Quaffle hoop and stand there petrified.” 

True. On a per spell basis, Al had inherited the strongest magic out of the three Potter children, but he could hardly use it at all.

Especially when the situation demanded it.

Al shrugged with a mellow smile. “No worries, Scazza.”

Scorpius agreed or he didn’t care. He sauntered away as several Galleons rained crisply upon the table. “Now you and your sad puppy eyes should go away too and fetch me—bloody hell, what’s the number again?” He snapped his fingers and closed his eyes. “Right. Fifteen butterbeers.”

  
  
  
~ Memory: Harry Potter ~  
  


> Knockturn Alley’s fall from grace, Dark grace as it might be, looked almost peaceful under the low storm clouds.
> 
> Harry could never search fast enough. Just when he’d thought he finished scouring through the attic shops within a block, new structures sprouted from rooftops and he had to start over again. His friends and colleagues had helped him for a while, but all they did these days was trying to distract him. He Apparated here whenever he could, spent as much time here as possible. 
> 
> Home had become memory.
> 
> But he would find them—the bastards making the cylinders and selling them for profit.
> 
> A year had passed. It had not taken long to identify three student suspects who had hexed Al that night into submission, all sixth-years and pure-bloods incensed by Harry’s words in the debate earlier that evening. But they had insisted—and the Aurors had confirmed—that they had nothing to do with the distribution of Cylinder 090921. They had only admitted to showing segments of that night to their friends.
> 
> Proceedings in the Wizengamot had begun soon after, and what had first seemed to be a straightforward case turned for the worse when the defence suggested additional accomplices, as evidenced by the unknown source of the cylinders, and argued that charges could not be made until the masterminds were known. The use of Veritaserum had long been banned and the suspects, unsurprisingly, had refused to surrender their recollections of that night. The trial stalled. 
> 
> What would turn the tides back to prosecution’s favor, Hermione had advised, was if Al’s own memory were available as key evidence. It could be done. She could recommend MLE to issue a subpoena, granting the Ministry the right to order a supervised memory descrambling.
> 
>  _But consider ... really consider what this may do to Al,_ she had said. _He isn’t you, Harry. His life has been … simple._
> 
> Meanwhile, Cylinder 090921 spread like a plague. By late November of his sixth year, Al had refused to leave the dormitory. The last day before Christmas had also been his final day at Hogwarts. 
> 
> That Al’s memory would be descrambled in three day’s time made no difference to Harry’s effort. The sellers would face justice on their own.
> 
> He caught sight of the ash black raven on the sign of Corvus, its wings spread in the rain. Inside the tavern, a cup of tea, kept warm by magic, waited on a table.
> 
> Harry’s first encounter with Atherol had been a few months before, a few alleys down the street. The tavern owner’s newly purchased kitchen supplies, not bottled memories, lay scattered all over the rain-soaked ground. Harry’s wand still pressed against his throat, the Dark-looking wizard had braced himself against the wall, his chin held high. “We pure-bloods don't exploit children.” His bearded face looked gaunt but proud; piercing cries of ravens could be heard from the wrists immobilized above his head. “True, it is not beyond us to eliminate anyone, young or old, who threatens our survival. But to use them for financial gains? A few petty Galleons?” With a smirk, he had spat, “That’s a Muggle tradition, Auror Potter.”
> 
> A croak hailed Harry back to the present. Atherol landed lightly before him from a wooden beam, wiping his mouth against his elbow as if preening the last of his feathers. Without preamble, he produced a Muggle business card from his sleeve, dropped it on the table and rotated it with his fingers for Harry to read.
> 
> _Tottenham Hardware  
>  Two blocks from Elephant  & Castle Tube Station_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> “This, here, should be a mark of my victory,” he began. “All I desired was to prove myself correct. Now that I have, I should be mocking your prejudice behind your back. Watch you chase after nothing in this alley forever.” 
> 
> He pulled out a bronze locket from his robe and spelled it open. Inside was a moving picture of a young man, yellow and frayed at the edges.
> 
> “I lost my only son in Azkaban. He'd run away to join Voldemort’s causes, which I neither endorsed nor rejected. _Stay away from politics,_ I'd always taught him, _we traders need friends, not enemies._ But he was young, passionate and impressionable. And he became a pawn in a battle that was never his to fight.”
> 
> Harry closed his eyes.
> 
> “For years I dreamt of revenge on everyone involved in the war. Light, Dark, right, wrong, it didn’t matter.” He returned the locket to its place and paced towards the window, navigating with ease through the seating area that was plain but clean without the smoke and equally murky transactions. “Even now, if your life could bring back my son’s, I would not hesitate to cast a Killing Curse on you.” 
> 
> He watched the rain outside and retrieved a hip flask from his robe. His eyes were drunk with sorrow when he looked back. 
> 
> “I’m offering this information neither as a friend nor an enemy. I’m offering it as a father. Go get those bastards, Auror Potter.”  
> 

  
  
  



	6. Fire, Wind and Earth — VI. Scorpius

 

——— VI. Scorpius ———

 

Bits of parchment always filled Scorpius’ pocket—fresh ones for owling and used ones, blotted with his father’s writing, for tearing and burning whenever he felt like it.

It took him several tries to find what he needed. He withdrew a red Muggle pen from his trousers, pulled off its cap with his teeth and scrawled: _Earth._

“Interrupted your lunch, did I?”

The white pelican ignored him, its claws still caked with silt from the Thames. Scorpius folded the message and tucked it inside the bill. It stayed open, anticipating a heftier load.

“This is it for today. Find him in _Fire_ , down by Corvus.”

The bird took off.

 _Earth_ , which spanned the limits of the rookery, was the only quadrant accessible by the other three. Storm drains with a skull design for its metal grate served as entrances, the water gurgling above them disguised as remnants of London’s perpetual rain.

The tip of his boot stuck in an eye socket, Scorpius twisted his feet clockwise. A dark jet of water sprang from the mouth of the skull, writhing in the air like a snake. He closed his fingers around its neck and pulled.

Scorpius genuinely _despised_ this landmark.

A dry staircase opened before him. He sprinted down the steps, clutching the vial in his pocket.

Calling this place a catacomb was not appropriate. It was more like a warehouse. Wrought iron frames supported the roofs and heavy iron gates fended off one space from another, leaving narrow and tortuous passageways. Designed as a shelter should war erupt again in wizarding Britain, each metal cage—there was no better description for it—was to be assigned to a family, who would then be able to devise any ward of their choice. The magic of this place was therefore mostly invested in protection, secrecy and anti-interference spells.

Over the past year, different parties had found ways to break in and set up wards. Few lived here, but businesses that demanded the utmost discretion thrived. These included whorehouses, pawnshops, and of course, potion dens.

The vial in Scorpius’ hand almost crushed under pressure.

His address for the day was D3. He cast a _Wingardium Leviosa_ at the gate, which recognized his magical signature and unlocked with a click.

The shop was nameless. Its atrium, paved with white marble and encircled by a towering height of white walls, gave no further hints of its trade. It was a place for consumption, as Corvus was in _Fire_ or Erumpents in _Wind_ —only it was more than food and drink that they served. Behind the walls were guest rooms supplied with the most exotic and expensive of ancient and modern potions, capable of feeding the renters’ every desire and fulfilling their darkest fantasies.

Scorpius followed the spiral staircase that led to the only door visible to him—the one that opened to his suite, his residence since he had moved to the rookery.

A drawing room in Victorian décor welcomed him. He flopped onto the leather chaise longue under the chandelier. On the coffee table awaited a bottle of _Vasiliev_ , his favourite brand of Firewhisky from Russia.

A shot of the spirit calmed his nerves somewhat. As the tumbler refilled itself, he took out the vial and examined the bright orange potion inside.

How could he have missed this? How could he have overlooked the signs?

He hurled the vial against the mirror above the fireplace. It exploded into a million pieces, but the colour faded almost instantly.

Then came a bang of the suite door.

“Al.” That was all the father could say as he stumbled in. “Al.”

As he dashed between the quadrants in the past hour, Scorpius had contemplated the best way to deliver the news. Now that some of his rage had evanesced with the spilt potion, he found himself choosing the simplest statement, “ _Water_ took him.”

Harry slid onto the hardwood floor, his knees propped up against his heaving chest. He removed his glasses and buried his face deep into his arms.

“I didn’t find Al this time. Someone else did—someone who’d just left Corvus.” The sunlight filtering in through the enchanted window sank into the humid summer air. The air was heavy, difficult to breathe. “By the time the news got to me, it's too late.”

No reaction. Scorpius went on. He needed to get this over with.

“I couldn’t risk sending him to St Mungo’s like last time. He wouldn’t make it. I reckoned it’s his only chance. I’m …” He grabbed the tumbler on the table and consumed all the spirits inside.

“Scorpius.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Scorpius.” Harry called again, softly, looking up at him. “This is never your responsibility. You’re an informant, not a babysitter.” A forced smile lifted the corner of his lips.

Scorpius couldn’t face it. He focused his thoughts on a word. _Invigaro_.

A vial of orange potion, identical to the one he had just destroyed, materialized and fell on his lap. A Summoning charm redirected it into Harry’s hand.

“What does this one do?” Harry studied the delicate belladonna relief on the vial, sounding oddly distant, as if this was just another new potion to get acquainted with for their job.

Scorpius had thought Al’s … insipidity had shared the same roots: the pain, the guilt, the unanswered “what ifs”.

“ _Invigaro_ covers up the telltale signs of potion use. Latest import, so everyone’s waiting for others to try it first. No one had any idea the damages it can do.”

After Al had vanished behind the waterfall, Scorpius’ first thought had been to return to this place. Apparition was possible only at selected spots in the rookery, so he’d run here, the vial he’d found in Al’s jeans in his hand, and demanded a duplicate vial with instructions. He had sent Harry the message to meet him here afterwards.

“Now we know,” Harry whispered. He shook the vial and for a moment, watched the foam swell to its demise along the walls.

“ _Water_ has taken in non-Knockturn residents before, am I right?”

So Harry knew. There had only been a handful of them—despicable, his grandfather would say, down to their blood—yet they'd still been granted admission into the quadrant. Scorpius yanked on a loose red thread on his jacket.

Harry didn’t push. “One more thing, Scorpius, that as a dad, I have to ask.”

Scorpius looked up.

Harry approached him. The crow’s feet perched to the corner of his eyes sank deeper every time Scorpius saw him. “Knowing the history between me and _Water_ , should I be worried?”

Scorpius’ worst fear had been Al being left to die under the waterfall. Whatever would happen afterwards would be _Water_ ’s memory alone. But if history served as a guide …

“Al will be all right.” His promise conveyed so much confidence; it must have come from Scorpius’ blood, for “but I don't know how or when. ”

“You can’t share, or—" Harry stopped. Scorpius was looking straight at him, willing him to read his mind. Legilimency was unnecessary. Harry had known Scorpius well enough from their numerous meetings for business, for portkeying away the underage prostitutes Scorpius had gathered to other wizarding communities, for checking on a ill Scorpius and dropping off those Muggle pens that Scorpius loved but kept losing…

“Scorpius, you haven’t been up there yet, have you?”

A floral pillow with gold tassels appeared on the sofa. Scorpius lay down. The silhouette of a Dreamless Sleep potion shimmered on the table, then vanished with a spark when he yanked a dagger out of his boot, the pewter-shaded blade shone in mysterious iridescence.

The dagger had been a present for his seventeenth birthday, which he’d retrieved from the bill of a pelican. The note accompanying it was uncharacteristically short, with none of usual to-do-and-deliver lists. The blade was laced with a poisonous memory, it said, and asked Scorpius to use it wisely. There was no offer of well wishes.

Not that Scorpius had expected it. All his life his father had been drifting away, parting further from him with every layer of black—from robes to coats to gloves … then silk. So much silk. The passing of the Heritage Preservation Act had only cemented his departure from Scorpius’ life, as it had sealed the fate of pure-bloods.

His being a Malfoy had only granted him access through the waterfall, won him treacherous deliveries of goods and men, missives overflowing with passages of instructions and commands.

The wards of _Water_ had yet to open for anyone, and Scorpius was not about to beg, or even request politely, for an exception.

That must be something in his blood as well.

A soft sigh came from Harry, Scorpius’ answer to his question before already understood. “I can’t thank you enough for this,” he said, sitting on the coffee table, “but I must go. Gin’s waiting in Diagon.”

Scorpius nodded.

After a slight hesitation, Harry reached out and gave his hair a soft, quick ruffle, as he had done to the Potter children when they’d hopped off of the Hogwarts Express.

Scorpius refused to take his eyes off the rose relief on the ceiling. “I’m almost out of the red pens, the fine-tipped ones. Bring a few for me next time, will you? I’ll pay you back.” He never did. “And—” he took a breath “—you think Elvy can come along?”

The Kneazle was … his soft spot, not that Scorpius would ever admit it.

Harry acknowledged with a light “Sure”. Scorpius bit a smile off his lips. His boss would bring the wrong ballpoints, Scorpius knew, and Elvy was about as subservient to him as … Al was.

The suite door soon closed. Scorpius studied his dagger again, knowing whatever power his father had bestowed upon it would never match that of _Albus Potter_ , an incantation guaranteed to work against the Saviour who had escaped Unforgivables unscathed, so easy to use that it deemed Harry Potter, Prophesised Hero and Auror Extraordinaire, no longer suitable for fieldwork.

Voldemort must be jumping mad in hell.

Scorpius snickered. He pushed the dagger back into its sheath and shoved all gloomy thoughts aside—of Al, of the two men in the entire world who had the right to use his proper name. Eyes shuttered closed, he tapped his boots on the cushions and schemed the next mayhem Scazza would raise in the rookery.

 

  


~ Memory: Scorpius Malfoy ~ 

 

> The Relocation was not so much marked by movement as a silent hysteria, even though the passage of the Heritage Preservation Act could not be unexpected—certainly not after three pure-bloods had committed a hideous crime against a royalty of the wizarding world: Albus Potter, the sweet Prince with a well-publicized magical disability, whose budding romance with a male Muggle-born had been touted as yet another example of the Potters being models of social tolerance.
> 
> Arse kissers.
> 
> The Act never required the pure-blood families to move into Knockturn. It just made it impossible for them to live anywhere else. Every quarter they must re-register any off-Knockturn estate, report their income and assets, allow the Auror Division to perform a thorough search on their properties, vaults and bank accounts and remove all items too ancient or valuable to remain outside the Preservation District.
> 
> Standing on a heap of snow, Auror Weasley had just addressed with a _Sonorus_ that the division of the precinct into four quadrants would allow more variety in its ward configuration, which would serve a protective purpose.
> 
> Protection from who or what, he'd never said.
> 
> Scorpius would simply have used the word _Greed_.
> 
> _Fire_ would be the original Knockturn Alley. _Earth_ would extend and fortify the passageways that the Knockturn shops had once used to smuggle in Dark Artifacts. _Wind_ , under construction at the moment, would be the district’s trading centre. While _Water_ …
> 
> “Watch it!” screeched a witch. Scorpius flicked his wand and barely managed to re-direct the levitated crate, which belonged to the Flints.
> 
> It was at times like this when the strength of their pure-blood heritage shone through. They were close-knit, their pride and dignity intact. Scorpius knew the faces around him well enough to catch the fear in their eyes, had heard their voices enough to capture the tremor in the incantations. But to those in Diagon Alley watching the move like a parade and reporting it in the _Prophet_ , they were thoroughly at peace with their fate.
> 
> Of course, none of this strength business applied to his own father, who was not planning, not helping, and probably had his head stuck in a silk cocoon somewhere.
> 
> The Flints had chosen to settle in _Fire_. Scorpius scanned the flats built above the candle shop and counted the floors for the one they would move into. He shrunk the crate, raised it higher and squeezed it through a broken window. Leo, the little boy who had been skipping along with him, cheered and clapped.
> 
> Another day of move-in completed, Scorpius stomped on the pavement to shake the slush off his boots. Flurries were drifting from the purple skies and the street was almost empty. His day usually ended with inspecting the progress of _Wind_ , but the bone-freezing chill, or perhaps, the evening being New Year’s Eve, propelled him to the other end of the rookery.
> 
> The water rushing off Gringotts’s back refused to rest for the year’s end. Scorpius chanted a spell and the waterfall parted for him like a veil, exposing an open space larger than anyone could have imagined. The revealed marble exterior of the bank looked as if it was creeping down towards Knockturn Alley, in white lava to be frozen by time.
> 
> Scorpius knew it was an illusion. it shrouded the half-built tower of _Water_ , visible to no one apart from his father and the man sitting by a cart of sand, holding a sandwich in his gloved hands.
> 
> He was watching Scorpius.
> 
> “Auror Potter.”
> 
> “Please, Harry. Coming to see if I’m slacking off?” Harry smiled and took a bite of the sandwich, then turned for a quick look at a pyramid of glowing orange at the far end of the space.
> 
> It was a bonfire, Scorpius thought, but then he saw—
> 
> “Don’t go close. Very hot.”
> 
> “Glass? You’re turning sand into glass?” Scorpius approached it anyway. There was something in the light that he could not resist. A protective charm fended off some of the heat but still, the temperature soon became unbearable.
> 
> How much magic was needed to fuel such a furnace in the depth of winter?
> 
> “I …” Scorpius, for once, was at a loss for words. “I don’t understand.”
> 
> Harry stowed away the sandwich, less than half eaten, and stepped beside Scorpius. He appeared as tired and wire-thin as he had on the front page of the _Prophet_ , but the warmth in his smile was genuine. Scorpius blinked—he had never seen the famous Harry Potter up close before—and failed to notice when Harry retrieved and waved his wand.
> 
> A jet of water detoured and dashed from the waterfall into the glowing pile. The orange glow extinguished in a loud sizzle and the space was immediately inundated with steam.
> 
> Scorpius jumped with a yelp.
> 
> “Reckoned it’d surprise you.” Harry grinned at him. “I’m building a glass manor for your dad.”
> 
> Scorpius could only stare at the sparkling crystals under the clearing smoke.
> 
> “Just don’t let anyone else know it’s glass, all right?” Harry looked up at his handiwork, his smile fading into a sigh. “It’s fragile, so someone's bound to throw a rock at it.”

  
  



	7. Water — I

****

Part 2: Water

__

_All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.  
~ Toni Morrison, Beloved_

  


——— I. ———

  


The bed was softer than any other Al had slept on for the past year, which was significant, considering he’d found himself on a different bed almost every other day. He pulled the blanket, thick and fluffy between his fingers, tucked it under his chin and snuggled against it.

He could sleep like this forever, if not for the rain outside. It must be pouring. The splash was loud and high-pitched. 

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

The room was spacious but austerely furnished. There was the bed, an armoire, a desk and a chair, black curtains against white walls. Cloaking himself with the blanket, he crawled out of bed, dragged his feet to the window and pulled the curtains apart.

This could not be a storm. The water was too dense, too violent.

The chaos echoed the fragments of sights and sounds drifting in and out of his head. He had spent the night in _Fire_ , in a flat stacked high upon a stone building. A luxurious one as well, with a window that overlooked the quadrant—never mind that the view was the ghastly, oversized rooftops engulfing one another with its shadows, letting through only a faint memory of the light from the streetlamps below. 

He was happy, he remembered, sitting naked and spread-eagled on the window sill, his arms stretched to hold on to the rusted window frame. His back floated on the cool summer breeze, his face bathed in the silver light of the moon. He felt clean and refreshed, except for where it shouldn’t, where he didn’t want it be — between his legs where hot, wet lips wrapped around his cock and fingers sticky with sweat and lube traced the scar on his hip towards his balls. 

The remains of what happened in the evening were too fractured to piece back together. The two of them probably shared a potion—he had no idea what it was; he had no idea who _he_ was, the man he'd soon fuck on the bed. Sated and wakeful after another sleepless night, Al had probably stumbled his way down the rickety stairs and wandered in the streets, severed by the slits of twilight that filtered in between buildings. 

The sun then rose—comforting in its certainty—but its rays pierced his eyes and they probably watered. He probably lingered in _Fire_ for as long as he could, seeking refuge from the light, wishing for something that could wipe out the harm a body had endured from before …

The memory of a belladonna relief lingered at his fingertips. A dash of orange came and went, then, a shadow—warm, unlike the glass in his hand, and bright red—draped upon him and he glided, amidst the stench, colours, echoes of the rookery, to a waterfall. It cascaded from the sky, turning his flesh raw and cold as the water etched away the dirt on his body.

With a roll of shoulders, the blanket fell. He was wearing nothing underneath and his skin was marred with red blotches—the waterfall was more than a dream, then.

Al looked out once more. One waterfall existed in the rookery and was only nicknamed as such; it was the storm water outlet from Gringotts, from which rainwater, carrying dust and filth, gushed from the back corner of its roof down into Knockturn Alley.

That was half of the story, of course. The rest was known among the dwellers of the rookery but never retold. 

One of the four quadrants of Knockturn was hidden entirely behind the drainage, squeezed between the bank and its shadow, much like the way Grimmauld Place was tucked between two buildings. More than coincidental, perhaps, for its construction was granted in exchange for his dad’s public signing of the Heritage Preservation Act. Its wards made use of the spillover magic from Gringotts, making it the closest and yet safest place from the rest of wizarding London, as secure as the bank vaults separated by a wall and piled high with Galleons and British Pounds. They would survive together, perish together.

Yeah, Al smiled to himself, his dad’s signature was all over this one.

 _Water_ , since its inception, had only one resident—someone who had not been seen in public since Al’s second year at Hogwarts, not even when the infamous surname had spilled all over the _Prophet_ when its exemption from the Act had caused an outcry. 

No one had ever been invited into the quadrant either. Even its exterior was a mystery to all. 

Apart from Scorpius, maybe. Scazza, who had first made a name for himself by punching the Sorting Hat within hours of entering Hogwarts, who, having garnered a hatful of NEWTS, had chosen to loiter in the slums. The rookery residents knew to owl him when standard healing potions had failed, when their friends or loved ones were clinging onto the last thread of their lives. Only a few would find salvation under the waterfall. Others would be left behind it, often drawing their last breath in its cold misery. 

No explanation was ever given. _Water_ , people whispered, was Knockturn’s own Fates—as powerful, merciful and cruel.

Al piled the blanket at the foot of the platform bed. He treaded the thick white carpet to the plainly-styled armoire. 

On the rack inside three identical black silk robes hung. A pair of woolen slippers, also black, rested neatly on the bottom shelf. There was not a hint of dust on the dark wood, polished so smoothly that it mirrored the falls beyond the window.

He dressed himself, marveling at how … stupid he looked in the old-fashioned attire, with its high collar and cuffed sleeves, with its heavily-embroidered hem tickling his ankles. Then, he twisted the doorknob and peered outside.

The next moment Al collapsed on the bed in a fit of wheezes.

~*~

The door swung open again gently by itself.

Al had remained on the bed, clutching the blanket as he calmed his breathing.

“You can come out now.” The drawl was familiar, but softer and deeper than Scazza’s. Al sat up, cleared his throat for the final time and stepped across the charmed barrier of _Silencio_ at the doorway.

The gasps had subsided. The child on the surgical table was resting, his delicate, peaceful face turned to one side. The scent of blood still saturated the air, but the heart had returned to its home, no longer in the grasp of the man beside the table. 

Hanging from a hoop on the ceiling was a wreath of dragon horns, which had received the outflow from the ventricle before. A ribbon of red continued to trickle steadily through them, between two silver needles buried deep in the little boy’s wrists.

The large tomes floating in the air closed one by one and stacked themselves. Finally, a long scroll of parchment rolled itself up and plopped against the topmost volume.

Al waited for the man to remove his gloves, to lift the translucent veil over his face. It didn’t happen.

“Good morning, Mr Malfoy.” 

“A Potter stranded in _Water_.” Draco Malfoy stood and picked up his wand by the sink. He cast several _Scourgify_ charms on himself and scrubbed his hands under the jet of water, the gloves still in place. 

Only after the wet gloves had been peeled off, exposing yet another pair underneath, was Al’s presence once again noted. Draco nodded at a glass on the counter by the window, from which violet steam rose into the air. “That one is yours.”

Al headed across the room. The walls and floor were covered with pearl white tiles, and a row of cabinets lined the wall beside the sink. Five others doors, all of them closed, led to the space besides than the one he had passed through. He cradled the glass and sniffed. Lavender. He lifted it to his lips.

“Do you know what it is?” Draco’s face looked cold under the silver hue of the veil. The style of his robe was almost identical as Al’s, only better fitted. Boots hid beneath the flowing silk. 

Al shook his head and took a sip of the drink. It was sweet and delicious. He guzzled it all down.

Draco, meanwhile, took in his every move. Once Al had returned the empty glass on the counter, it was cleaned and inverted to rest on its rim. “The resemblance between courage and stupidity never ceases to amaze me.” 

Al shrugged with a smile. 

“I see,” Draco merely said. He took the seat by the surgical table—the only chair in the room—and continued, “This is _Water_ , as you may have deduced. The rules here are simple. This is the guest floor. You’ll not touch anything that does not belong here. We are in the operating area. You’ve seen your bedroom and washroom. The two doors over there are spare rooms similar to yours. Right now Leo is staying in one of them.” He glanced at the boy on the surgical table. “The potions lab is down the hallway behind this door here, and the living area is behind the door on its right. Leave rubbish and worn garments in the bin inside. Meals will be served in the adjacent kitchen.”

He stood again and approached the window, his eyes searching for something beyond the falls. “Meanwhile, your wand—your magic—will be in my safekeeping. You’ll get it back when you leave, at a time of my choosing, after a satisfactory payment for the services provided.”

Al couldn’t have had more than a Sickle or two with him. “That’s why you kept my clothes too? For payment?”

“Those atrocities?” Draco turned towards Al. The hint of amusement on the sharp features was impossible to ascertain, with the folds of the veil casting striated shadows across his face. “No, they never made it into _Water_. Except these.” A drawer of a cabinet slid open and a pouch fell beside Al’s slippers.

Al picked it up and inspected the contents—an inhaler, a Sickle and Two knuts, a wristwatch. That had been everything in his pocket but …

“It takes more than a pair of spectacles to be your father.” A corner of Draco’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “For one, he’s never scared away by a bit of blood. Rather enjoyed the sight of it, if I …” 

Al had reached for the cleaned glass on the counter. Draco’s unfinished words froze as Al proceeded to play idly with it. Despite apparent attempts to tear them away, the eyes behind the veil kept returning to the scene.

The scrutiny, the resulting tingles in Al’s every nerve, were too familiar. Al pressed his thumbs against the glass and drew a wide circle, smearing the sparkles on the surface in its wake. 

With barely measured steps, Draco pulled himself away. He strode across the room. The books in the air gave a violent jerk before turning to follow him. “Leo is due for dialysis every other morning. Stay in your room if your delicate sensibilities cannot handle it.”

The only door that had yet to be described to Al swung open. “As for you, you are to drink a potion, like the one you just had, every morning and evening.”

Faint echoes of the drawl still lingering in the air, the door closed. Draco had left. 

No. Draco had fled, appalled by Al. 

By that indelible filth on his skin.

~*~

“It always tastes this bad?”

Leo nodded, stabbing the charred cubes with his fork. Draco had cut the steak into small pieces for him. 

Al had to battle his dinner with a knife. “Aren’t there house-elves around here?”

With a pout, Leo pushed his plate aside. “Haven’t seen nobody. So boring.” He bobbed his chin on the back of his hands. “Hungry too.”

Three days and six glasses of lavender essence later, Al shared the same sentiments: bored and hungry. Although there must exist an unusual peace in this place as well, for he had lost the urge to seek out Calming Draughts. Draco was seen only during Leo’s treatments. Their meals, medicines, clothes and other daily necessities were left for them at specific times and places. 

The few old toys and books in the living area could keep a child entertained for no more than several hours, never mind a young man in his late teens.

“You know what? We’ll explore this place tomorrow.”

~*~

“How did you do that?” Sitting on the kitchen worktop, Leo watched, wide-eyed, as bubbles rose from the frying pan Al was scrubbing in the sink. They had just finished a generous helping of eggs, beans and toast for brunch.

“That’s how Muggles do it.”

“Father said Muggles are bad people.” Leo wrinkled his nose, nibbling on a piece of crystallized sugar Al had made for him. 

Al plucked the treat from Leo’s chubby fingers with his teeth, tilted his head backward and let it drop into his mouth. “Like you’d be eating this if I couldn’t cook Muggle,” he slurred.

“Sorry.” Leo grabbed another piece from the bowl. 

Al wiped his hands on his robe. “Now, let’s go and find some toys.” He lifted the boy from the unit and set him down on the floor. “Remember. Keep quiet. Mr Malfoy didn’t say anything to you about not touching stuff, yeah?”

Leo shook his head, his cheeks already flushed with excitement.

Al extended his hand and Leo held on to it tightly with his own. 

“Good.”

~*~

The door wasn’t locked. Al was careful to leave it closed, thus it was after Leo’s gasp that Al saw the source of wonder.

The guest floor was the penthouse of _Water_. After a short flight of stairs, the stairwell opened to the rest of the quadrant.

It was a tower—tall as Gringotts itself, though each level was modestly-sized. What was so striking was that it was entirely constructed of glass. The solitary sheet on one side provided an unobstructed view of the waterfall. The other walls, meanwhile, seemed as though the glass had been salvaged from a fire, warped in its semi-molten state—they skewed reality, the knowledge of whatever was behind them ciphered away by distortion.

Taking Leo’s hand again, Al ventured towards the window for a closer look. 

Beyond the falls was the bird’s eye view of the rest of Knockturn. The penthouse must be near the outlet of the storm drain, for the gushing water outside his bedroom window thinned into a smooth curtain as it fell. Looking down, one could see the black rooftops of _Fire_ and the earth-toned flats in _Wind_. 

Somehow, the distance, the loss of details cleansed the image of the rookery.

As Leo gaped in awe, Al turned to survey the storeys below. In truth, he had a destination in mind —Scazza’s room, assuming it had moved here with the rest of the Malfoy Manor. Surely Draco wouldn’t mind Leo borrowing some playthings his son had outgrown? 

To do so, however, would require the bedrooms to be on the upper floors.

Luck was on their side. The sparse, open design of the tower offered a view into the few storeys below, which did resemble the living quarters. There were no signs of life, no noises apart from the splashes his ears had become accustomed to. A long staircase zigzagged along the other side of the U-shaped interior; it reached past the ground level into unknown depths, past numerous floors that, with their enormous shelves of books, seemed to be part of an immense library.

“Come on,” Al whispered. 

Leo looked up, nodded and reached out. 

Behind him, two tiny handprints, speckled with sugar, marked the otherwise pristine glass.

~*~

Doors were non-existent in the living quarters of _Water_. Walls were sparse. There were few corridors, and the oversized rooms with spectacular views of the waterfall were all left unfurnished. The few desks and cabinets that could be found, with their lush floral relief and ostentatious gold trimmings, looked grotesquely out of place. The halls were devoid of portraits, decorated only by the misshapen silhouette of the adjacent rooms.

It was like an asylum, a deserted one. 

Scazza’s room was hence a wonder: a white box encased by the castle of glass, its rosewood door opened to a crack. The crimson walls inside screamed for attention. 

Gesturing Leo to push the door open, Al took a breath and stepped inside. 

The white bedding looked stiff and unused, lifeless against the backdrop of cluttered bookshelves and cabinets. Unpacked boxes lined up on one side of the black carpet, piled high with toys, trophies and other mementos—such as the Slytherin tie earned from hitting the Sorting Hat that'd just declared _Gryffindor_ , or the moving pictures of a younger Scazza wrapping his arm around his friends, pretending to strangle some of them and kissing the others on their cheek.

From what little memory he had of his former classmate, Al realised, Scazza was always … touching. Someone. Something. 

Except for the moments when he'd disappeared into the Muggle crowd in King’s Cross alone, in white shirt and black trousers. No one was there to pick him up...

Al gathered his thoughts. Time was tight. He inspected the toys before him. 

“Let’s see.”

The corner of a chess set soon caught his attention.

“You play wizard chess?”

Leo shook his head.

“Want to learn?”

Eager nods.

“All right. Grab that over there.” 

Leo also loved to read. Al lifted him on his shoulders to pick out some books from the shelves.

As for himself … maybe he could try to remember the winning strategies for chess again.

“Ready?” Al asked as he put Leo down, careful not to touch anything apart from the carpet beneath his slippers. The next moment, the little boy gasped and their spoils rained upon their feet.

Draco Malfoy was standing at the doorway.

“That explains the hand prints. Leo, pick up the toys and take them to your room.” The quietness of these words dulled the edge of the drawl. The boy grinned, taking it as a sign of forgiveness. The cold look at Al showed little signs of thawing. 

“Why don’t you head back as well, Mr Potter, but meet me by the stairs of the penthouse after dinner.”

~*~

Standing by the window, Draco had clasped his hands behind his back as he looked into the evening. Darkness had engulfed _Fire_ , leaving the burden of light to _Wind_. The sleepless quadrant burnt like a lake of flames beyond the waterfall.

“I’m here, Mr Malfoy.”

A small wooden box trekked the arm’s length distance between them.

“I forgot how useless this is to you.” Draco turned, his face a dark shadow behind the veil.

“You’re letting me go?”

“You’ll be crawling back by dinner tomorrow at the latest.”

“You're stopping my treatment?”

A smirk. Arms folded, Draco clipped his wand between two fingers and began tapping an almost playful rhythm against his arm. “I’m afraid not. Unbelievable as it may seem, I’ve got a reputation to keep. And of course, there’s the issue of payment.” 

Al felt the quick sweep of Draco’s eyes across his own face; he swallowed. 

“If you think you can get away with it, you’re more of a spoilt brat than I once was. Since Leo will be leaving—”

“Not because of this morning, is it?” Al stepped back. The railing behind him sent his chills. He closed his fingers around it.

“What if it is? What if it isn’t? It’s not like you have any say in his fate—” with a silent spell, Al’s wand levitated from the wooden box and floated before them, swaying like a small boat in a storm, “when you don’t have much say in your own.”

Al took his wand, wondering for a moment whether the payment was to suffer a humiliating defeat in a duel. He held on to it in ready mode, though his arms remained at his sides. Draco snorted as his wand cast a _Scourgify_ at the railing.

“Fighting a half-Squib is about as interesting as—” he paused and sighed lightly, “—everything else in here. You’re coming with me to the study. Apparition.”

~*~

The study was located below ground level. Its glass walls were almost white from the fissures within, as if about to crush under the weight of the tower.

The silence was deafening. 

Draco poured himself a glass of Firewhisky; he didn’t offer Al one. Furnishings in the room were also minimal, plainly styled and all arranged to one side of the study. The other side was empty, the frosted glass floor tapering towards a barely-visible crack that opened to the earth below. Hovering glass spheres with twirling sparks of magnesium fire lit the space. 

Al hesitated to step in. 

Meanwhile, the master of the quadrant tore off his gloves, which, with a flick of his wand, combusted into a tiny ball of flames. His hands remained sheathed—but in light silver, its luster an echo of the veil’s. On the wrists, two scarlet ribbons gathered the cuffs to a snug fit; the vibrant hue did not remain in sight for long. Draco adjusted the fabric of the new gloves caught between his fingers.

It was a ritual—well-practiced, precise.

Why had he let Al in? Al's scar burned on his hip. 

“I’ll leave,” he heard himself saying, “I won’t crawl back here. Owl me whatever I owe you; I’ll pay Scazza—” 

A chair flew in from the adjacent room. “Sit down.”

“You’ll burn it afterwards.”

“Correct.”

There had been strange looks, whispers and pointing fingers. But no one had been so forthright about their disgust. Al remained on his feet.

“The chair will not thank you for your martyrdom.”

“No, really. I’m fine.” He searched for the right words. “Thank you. I mean, it’s all right. I know.”

“That's a new one, knowing stuff. Tell me, Mr Potter. What exactly do you know?” Draco leaned back to look at him. 

_That I am filth_. Nothing new, then. Who didn't know already? He took his seat.

Draco took a sip of liquor, with it the pleasure in the sight of defeat. “Albus," he drawled, savoring the name. "Rumors haven't lied. You’re, indeed, the best thing that’s happened to your father. Not for him. But for those who hate him.” The veil billowed as he stood and walked towards the cabinets along the wall. 

“Now let’s discuss what we’re for, shall we? Payments.” He turned to Al once more. “First, do you know what I do here?”

“Saving people, I suppose.” 

Draco shook his head with a furl of lips. “That’s your father’s department, something a mere mortal like me dares not touch.” A smirk coincided with the click of the latch. “Doesn’t want to touch either, seeing what a waste of time it is.” 

Al bit his tongue.

“But you’re right in that I do save certain things. You may call me an archivist.” 

The cabinet door opened. Inside were racks upon racks of glass cylinders. Faintly glowing smoke twisted and coiled within the crystalline prisons. 

“Memories. Surely you recognise these?”

Blood drained from Al's brain. He felt lightheaded, his skin cold. 

But he nodded.

From the bottom shelf, Draco retrieved what looked like a spinning wheel from Muggle fairy tales. A MemorSpin. The bottled memories pealed as he searched for what he needed. He found what he looked for and locked a cylinder on the spindle by its silver knobs.

“You …” Al tried to lift himself up, but his legs were heavy as stones. “I don’t watch memories.”

With a swish of his wand, Draco sliced open the ceiling and on the empty side of the study, water—as if redirected from the falls above—cascaded into the space. It gurgled along the tilted glass floor before draining through the crack into dark soil.

“A small collection of them came from public records. Moments that shaped wizarding history—moments that made us, moments that would break us.”

“Stop.” There was little strength in the request. Al felt weak. So weak.

And Draco ignored him. The spinning wheel began to turn; the silver knobs were pulled apart and the smoke escaped, swirled aimlessly before dashing towards the water, weaving it into images that made the memory, cutting and deflecting its flow to generate the sounds. 

“Please.” The sound from the water was deepening to a voice. Al turned away. 

_Now the final signer of the Heritage Preservation Act, Harry Potter, Head Auror, to whom we owe everything, who ensures the safety of our children—_ pause _—and make possible the democratic, integrated society of ours today. Quill please?_

The memory was unpleasant, but … safe. Al had read the news on the _Prophet_ , seen photos of the Minister with a smile on his lips and daggers in his eyes, and his dad with, well, daggers everywhere. Al finally summoned enough courage to watch the water screen; there was no escape from the knowledge forced upon him during the trials—that the scene would pan towards whichever angle the viewer wished to watch.

His dad appeared then, sitting at the other end of the long table in his burgundy uniform, his glasses askew and his frame stiff with tension. He looked emaciated, aged, and somewhat … crazed with his unkempt hair, his sunken but fiercely-bright eyes. 

_“Thank you, Minister. Congratulations.” He flashes a smile at the Minister, eerie in its void of emotions, and offers a sideward glance too quick to notice anything he hasn't seen before. “Nice Rolex, by the way.”_

_Sparse snickers can be heard from the audience._

_“I look forward to signing the Act in a bit. But because now I'm so proud of this new, reformed Ministry, I want to dedicate a few words myself to all it has accomplished, especially when it comes to safeguarding the guaranteed rights of citizens. ”_

_The Minister blanched, his lips thinned to a line._

This would be the perfect time to flash another smile, but Al's dad had always been awful at acting. Instead, he swiped off his glasses and squinted briefly at the parchment on the table. 

_“Like this one here." He stabs his finger on the parchment. "_ 'That no one should be subjected to double jeopardy before the Wizengamot and recurrent penalty for the same offense' _. This has been the heart of our amicable discussions, hasn't it, Minister? And we've agreed that the Malfoys of Wiltshire, while being subjected to most of the terms of this act, are exempt from the search of their household and the pilfering … sorry, I mean filtering of their property of historic or Dark artifacts.”_

_The crowd roared with whispers. Cameras flashed._

_“And there's this one." He stabs another row._ 'That all citizens have equal rights to social support, including policing and medical services.' _He puts his glasses back on. "Can't tell you how much your opinion on this touched me—" he gritted the words from his teeth "—and I feel that my Auror Department cannot _not_ do a part." He stands and the audience buzzes. His hands in his pockets are clenched. "So now is a good opportunity to inform the public that I and my partner Ronald Weasley will begin to station in Knockturn, effective tomorrow, to respond to the needs of this new Preservation district and serve the Ministry by supervising the relocation._

The memory paused there, with a tap of Draco’s wand. “I wonder how long it’d taken him to practice this little speech.” He chortles in amusement. “Isn’t that bad, is it? Lifts your dad’s pedestal by another notch.”

All Al wanted to retreat into the safety of the bedroom. He gripped the sides of his chair to tame his shakes. Draco frowned. Al's behaviour had, in some way, strayed from his expectations.

“Obviously, I got … carried away.” Draco drew in a breath, summoned his chair and fell back onto it, his snicker more self-depreciating than sardonic. “Back to …” He sighed. “Where was I? Yes. Memories.” The drawl banished any residual warmth between his lips. “So you see, Mr Potter, my job is to archive wizarding traditions—the library in _Water_ contains records and relics of the pure-blood families relocated to Knockturn. But it’s incomplete. Some information is also inconsistent. So I collect memories when convenient, memories of unwritten rules and customs passed on from generation to generation, stories and such. Secrets. And not only from pure-bloods. Not a bad idea to gain an outsider’s perspective, when the outsiders have pretty much taken over our world.”

Al stared at the cracks in the glass beneath his feet, anticipating...

“So this is what I ask in return for my services. Memories.” 

_Memories_. Al looked up.

“Don’t look at me this way. Every visitor of _Water_ makes the same payment, but—” he cast a silent spell on the spindle, which spun and tore the strands of memory away from the water screen. They screeched in a futile attempt to escape the draw of the glass cylinder, “—given your surname, it’d be unbecoming of me to not offer you special treatment … an award of bravery, if you will, for upholding the fine Potter tradition of ignoring the rules.”

What a longwinded way to get to the point. Al felt his strength return. 

Draco resealed the ceiling and for a moment, water continued to fall like rain.

“Usually, I select the memory I wish to save. But, Mr Potter—”

“Al.” 

“—Al, I’ll let you choose your own.” The offer was smooth as black silk, the veil unable to conceal the glint in the eyes beneath. “Including _that_ memory, should you desire.” 

The last knot in Al’s chest loosened. Everyone wanted the same thing from him in the end, the thing that had defined him, had become him. 

The Memory. 

“Attic shops carry them in cartons. You don’t have to waste my payment for that.” Al found himself smiling. “For a Sickle or two they’ll make you all the cylinders—”

A snort cut him off. Draco had leaned back against his chair, his sharp jaw line in view as his chin tilted, sending the silver veil to a light flutter.

“You think I want to see that.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You think I wanted to see touch—human contact—as a tool of humiliation.”

He stretched his arms across the desk and examined their length, speaking again only when his eyes—and Al’s—had finally reached his hands.

“You see these?” Draco’s fingers curled, grasping for the silver sprinkles cast by the light on the dark gloves. “They evaded my mother’s reach when she took her last breath. They’ve never touched my son or his mother. They haven’t even felt the skin they’re made of for more than a decade.” 

With one fluid motion, Draco reached upward and caught a light sphere in the air. Silver wings soon sprouted from it and it took off from the black silk. 

“No one is good enough, clean enough for them.” He studied Al’s face, then sighed and tipped his head back again. 

“Well, almost no one.”

  
  
  



	8. Water — II

——— II. ——— 

  


It must be raining. The light filtering through the waterfall was gray, stripped of any cheer and warmth. 

Not unlike that summer morning when Uncle Ron had visited Hogwarts.

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Al studied the chessboard and frowned. The white bishop fidgeted between his fingers. 

“Al!” He heard. The door of the bedroom flew open and the bishop fell to the carpet. The black king could not help an undignified grin.

“Come here! Get your wand!”

Al dashed to the operating area, the collar of his robe still unbuttoned but his wand in hand. All he could see, for a brief moment, were the large tomes floating in the air, which was rancid above its usual metallic scent. 

One of the books soon plunged onto the floor.

Draco appeared behind it, blood gushing from the beating heart in his hand. Leo was twitching violently on the table beside him, his eyes widened to protruding. Frantic gasps for air stifled his cries. 

“Listen carefully.” The drawl sliced through the horror. “Apparate to the fourth floor—that’s Gamp archive. _Accio Medicamentum_. Go!”

Al went.

Gamp archive. Mahogany shelves stood in rows, packed to leave a corridor just wide enough for one person to pass. The volumes were all nameless and bound in dark brown leather, and Al steadied his breath to Summon what he’d been told. The shelves gave an agonizing squeak as the wooden frames stretched themselves apart; the books squeezed aside to make space as a tome flew past them. It crashed against Al’s arms, throwing him against the shelf behind his back. 

The pages under the cover burned like a kettle on a stove. Al flipped through them with the tip of his wand. The title matched. 

It had to be within five minutes when Al returned to the operating area, but Draco’s veil was already dripping with red. Lying on the floor was the wreath of dragon horns, one of which noticeably cracked and black liquid was trickling out of it, swirling into the pool of blood below.

“Here,” Al handed over the volume between wheezes. 

Draco seemed much more at peace than before. He sat still, was focused on threading a gold wire through the eye of a needle. “Find the section on _proelium utrimque. Day 122_.” 

Leo’s heart, back in his chest, had stopped bleeding. It struggled meekly.

The bound parchment in _Medicamentum_ had noticeably cooled; Al turned the leaves with his hand.

“Read it to me.” Draco lit a small fire and passed the needle through its flames.

“I …” A fit of coughs chose the moment to strike. Al tried to swallow them down but couldn’t. His breaths forced through his narrowing windpipe and their turbulence smeared the view around him white. “I forgot … ’cient runes.”

Draco finally looked up. He was about to speak when he froze, as if something invisible—a faraway voice, perhaps—had caught his attention. His eyes shuttered for a moment and his veil, bruised into the shade of rust, fluttered with his sigh. He then turned slowly towards the boy.

Al struggled to follow, his sight falling onto the small body lying on the table.

The heart gave weak, final squeeze and went still. 

“Doesn’t look like we need it any more, do we,” Draco whispered, his voice composed and his gloved hands resuming their work, piercing the threaded needle through the lifeless flesh. A light swish sounded at the same time and an inhaler fell beside Al’s feet. “Use it before you die on me as well.” 

Loops of gold gathered and closed Leo’s chest as Al’s vision cleared and his chest loosened. It was then he saw the silver needle under one of Draco’s methodically moving hands, linked though a line to a similar needle pierced into the little boy’s wrist; blood was flowing between them.

“Mr Malfoy. The line …”

Draco knotted the gold thread and spliced it with a spell. “I know.” 

But the connection remained. The boy was cleaned and dried with water and washcloth, slowly and meticulously, then dressed in a fresh silk robe. Al watched on as Draco finally retrieved the needle from Leo’s wrist, then from his own. Fresh drops of scarlet rained over the darkened pool of blood on the floor. 

A roll of silk was Summoned from one of the cabinets, its vivid yet smooth sheen burned like cold fire against the white tiles of the room. Draco unrolled the fabric and shrouded the little boy with it, then he carried him on his arm, resting the small head on his own shoulder. 

There was no objection when Al followed Draco out of the penthouse. 

The quiet procession of two marched down the tower, step by step along the stairs. It seemed to take hours to reach the ground floor, then not nearly long enough when Draco finally turned and said, “You stay here.”

Thus Al stood by the window as the figure went beneath the arch of water, beneath the once smooth current that had long shattered into beads in its violent descent. He strained to make out the details of the silhouette, the red merging into the black on the shoulder.

A bird landed under the water, received something in its pouch before its giant white wings spread again. A daub of scarlet soon emerged against the shadows afar. 

As it neared and elongated, Draco knelt, laid down Leo and—Al could not be certain with the mist shrouding the two of them—kissed the child on the forehead. He then began to return to the tower, right before the scarlet shade had the chance to bloom into life.

The wards of _Water_ had no visible boundaries, but Draco had apparently crossed it when his son appeared beneath the waterfall. Scazza stared at Leo’s body for a moment, then, in a lightning-fast motion, picked up something on the ground and hurled it against the tower. It landed short of the glass wall, but brushed against Draco’s sleeve. 

From the way Scazza stared, he had not seen the fate of the rock. 

But it had stopped Draco, just steps away from re-entering the tower. The spray of the falls removed the bloodstains on the veil; soaking wet as the rest of him was, the light silver hugged the contours below like a lustrous membrane. 

And for the first time, Al could see Draco Malfoy without drifting shadows between them. He had never known a face could give away so many emotions at once. His son shared the chiseled features but the rage, the grief, the resignation, then the glimmer of hope and relief when Scazza lifted Leo’s body and left, seemed possible on Draco’s face alone.

The trailing water evaporated upon Draco’s entry into the tower, but the black silk robe remained wet, clinging to the body below. Draco finally turned to gaze at the waterfall, at where his son had last appeared. 

“I’m sorry, Mr Malfoy,” Al said.

There was no response, until Al was about to Apparate upstairs. 

“What was there to be sorry for?” The question was cold, as must be the water outside. A noticeable quiver had invaded Draco, but failed to shake off the harsh words that followed. “He was meant to die anyway.”

Al spun. This could not be the same person who had just transfused his own blood to the sick, who had just walked a body down flights of stairs in a funeral attended by one.

“The Flints gave away a daughter after the war. They’re running, saving money for a proper heir.” Draco smirked as water slid from his temple to his jaw. “They should thank me for ridding them of a Knockturn spawn.” 

“I don’t suppose so.” His words lacked rage. Al realised he had calmed himself too much to summon it. 

“You could very well be the next one lying there.” Draco nodded towards the waterfall and his eyes swept towards Al, then trailed from his face towards his abdomen. “Delinquent. Weak. Your parents will be so much happier without you.” He withdrew his wand, his final question replacing the void of his absence. “Who wants a whore for a child?”

~*~

Neither dinner nor the potion was served that night. In any case, Al had not planned to consume them.

That night, he dreamt of lavenders.

~*~

Dawn. Al woke to the scent of flowers, but none were within his reach. The room remained lifeless in its black and white. His parched throat yearned for the soothing, sweet nectar.

He threw on a robe and headed out of his room. The large tomes were still floating in the air. The silver needles and golden thread remained on the operation table. Draco had not returned since he had carried Leo from the room.

A scroll of parchment sat on the counter. Al loosened the leather string and smoothened it with his hands. As the one he had seen on the first day, it was filled with writing. The ink was in multiple hues, matching the colour of the books in the air.

His hands shook lightly. The writing described Leo’s treatment, from the first to the last step. _Llewellyn Flint_ was inscribed behind two names on the header of each day except for the last; he must have been the third child Draco had taken in for the same disease.

That, itself, was something to be said, for the instructions were beyond complex. Convoluted. Not only were they long, every line-item was encoded in no less than three colours—it had likely come from the records of three or more families. 

So Draco was not a self-taught mediwizard. Al could imagine, instead, an oddly donned wizard rummaging through the library, spending many evenings in the study to piece the puzzle together. 

Al slid his fingers downward, browsing for the steps to be taken on _Day 122_. 

There were no signs of confusion or missing pieces. The procedures were in fact simple compared to the first three months. But then, a small print in black near the bottom edge of the parchment caught his eyes:

+: Bulstrode, Crouch

-: ? (Gamp?) 

Gamp archive. Leo had turned out to be a negative, whatever that meant.

~*~

By early afternoon, Al’s addiction to the lavender essence had become too apparent. He knew the signs, remembered how the desire for one drop of potion could spread like wild fire.

 _You’ll be crawling back by dinner tomorrow at the latest_ , Draco had said. 

Sprawled on the floor of the living area, Al nibbled on a piece of bread. Crumbs rained down before him, tiny seeds that would blossom into purple flowers, Al imagined, overcoming the putrid odour around him. His flesh itched and was softening, as if turning into mush.

He turned to his side, his feet toppling the bin in the corner. Black silk flooded onto the floor. The old robes had yet to be collected and burnt. 

Al could manage an _Incendio_ , but …

But…

He rubbed his eyes, only to feel a stabbing pain. He looked. There was a blister on his wrist. He shook his head to clear his vision, then stumbled down the stairs to the living quarters. 

Intersecting the waterfall was a field of lavenders. It stretched before him, a violet dream speckled with gold. 

At its center, Draco stood, his veil lifted by the breeze.

~*~

The glass manor made the search a simple one.

True to its name, the master bedroom had a bed and a dozing master. Propped up against a pillow, Draco remained in gray and black, but his face was not cold. Rather, it shone with sweat. 

His arm dangled. A bottle of Firewhisky lay on the floor, drowning in a pool of gold.

The lavenders, Al decided, were drunk.

“Mr Malfoy?” Al woke him up. With the lavenders.

Draco opened his eyes. “Potter.” His lips barely moved. “How’d you get in?”

Al’s mind came up with nothing. Nothing but a field of purple. 

“Don’t tell me,” Draco muttered. “You waltzed through the front door, didn't you.”

Exhausted from the hike, Al shrugged and leaned against the archway. 

Draco did not look disgusted. “Thought you’d be back only if I let Scorpius in. I remember that. How’s my son?”

It made no sense—mistaken as his dad then. It'd happened many times before and for the flowers, Al could be anyone, anything. “Scazza’s fine.” 

“Scorpius.” Draco corrected him.

The air smelled sweet. Floral. Just as Al was to mention flowers, a whiff—a memory—blew in. 

He was here for something else. 

Someone. A _clean, good_ someone. 

Draco waved at him. “Found me some pristine house-elves yet?”

“You’re ill.” Al slid into the bedroom, the glass wall on his back.

“Small fever.” 

But the cheeks were pink, the words entwined by gasps. The fever was deep. Alcohol fueled the burn, glowing red— 

—like blood. Al remembered then, the line and needles. No wonder he got so sick.

“Nothing that can kill you anytime soon, Potter. Or me.” Draco huffed and shifted, making a face. “Now get your arse over here.”

Al sank on to the floor beside the bed. “You’ve got fever potions?” he mumbled. The moat around the bottle smelled like lavenders. They might taste the same too. He slouched forward, and—

A warm hand lifted his chin. Al looked up. 

Draco had pulled off his gloves, red ribbons flowed between his fingers. 

Skin against skin, the touch was firm. Reverent.

“You know what?” Draco was a flower, Al decided. His voice was nectar, his lips were petals. “This …” His fingers traced along Al’s nose, from bridge to tip, then to his mouth, his jaw. Al could see and feel every one of them. “This has been passed along to your son. To Al.”

~*~

Al had, somehow, managed to bring water and bread from the kitchen. Every morsel of his strength gone, he knelt by the bedside and rested his head on Draco, sucking on an old piece of crystallized sugar.

Lavenders, their sight, their scent, their taste, had taken over the world, save for the little space Al occupied and drew his breaths from, where it was barren and mired with blood. Critters—Dark and invisible—were crawling beneath his skin. Al had bitten on himself, picked on his skin with fingers then glass shards to no avail. The tears in his skin had shown nothing but flesh and blood. 

Evening had come with Draco’s fever deepening again. He had demanded to hear the latest news of the rookery, his bare hand never letting Al’s go. In the hours when the room had, for once, _lived_ in the fire of the sunset, Al had talked, mostly about floral magic, but never found the potion meriting a mention. 

Draco would not have understood and that's all right. Soon, Al would erode into nothing and the raid of the lavenders would be complete.

 _No worries, Al. No worries_.

The breathing beside him slowed and the touch slid away. Al struggled to stand, made sure Draco had everything he might need and stumbled his way back to the penthouse. 

The night seemed to take the edge from his discomfort, preparing for Death’s arrival, perhaps. For one moment, his mind was clear as the waterfall, laced silver by the moonlight.

On summer evenings like this, his family had used to lie in their backyard and take turns to tell stories. His dad had always been the first to run out of things to say. 

James and Lily should be able to come home soon—three years should be long enough for any dust to settle. His mum and dad would be overjoyed to have them back.

_Who wants a whore for a child?_

Al crawled onto his bed. It was dependable as always, the blanket thick and fluffy. The black cotton would no doubt usurp his life—as it was doing to his blood, seeping steadily from the wounds in his broken flesh. 

He tucked the blanket beneath his chin and closed his eyes.

This would not a bad way to die.

  
  


~ Memory: Albus Potter ~ 

  


> Quick steps pattered behind him; Al barely had time to brace himself—
> 
> “Lils!”
> 
> His sister grinned at him, her arms circled around his neck. “My favorite badger.” Her glasses and Ravenclaw tie were askew. Wild red curls tickled Al’s face.
> 
> “Geroff me!”
> 
> Her grin wider, Lily slipped back down on her own feet. She straightened her robe and adjusted her patched book bag for a bit. Still, she looked like a mess.
> 
> Al’s favorite mess. 
> 
> He signaled her to turn and weaved her hair into a loose French braid. She’d loved it since she’d been a little girl but had never bothered to learn to do it herself. Now, she claimed to be too busy with the school activities she was involved in, which were everything.
> 
> “How did the debate go?” she asked. “I missed it. Painting class—moving portraits.”
> 
> “Nothing interesting,” Al said. “Same arguments. It’s only a big deal because the other side found a pure-blood to give a speech on some bollocks, like how he thinks it's such an honor for him to participate in the Act and contribute to wizard-Muggle relation. Even a troll could tell he was paid to say things like that.” He pulled a wrinkled ribbon out of his sister’s bag and secured the braid. “And because Dad’s on the floor. I only watched it because McGonagall made us—”
> 
> “Parchment?” Lily turned to him, her nose wrinkled.
> 
> Al signaled with his fingers: three scrolls.
> 
> Lily stuck her tongue out, then her eyes lit. “So, how was dad?”
> 
> Al snickered and stuck out his palm. Lily took off her glasses and handed it over.
> 
> “I’ve said this many times before.” Al pushed up the spectacles and feigned an irritated look. “Sure, pure-blood families have been richer than half-bloods and Muggleborns and they might have got some of their money from Dark activities, but unless we have proof, the Ministry can't just take away their assets, which everyone knows is what this measure’s really all about.” He tore off the glasses and returned them to his sister. “There.” 
> 
> Lily looked comically pensive. “Insightful, indeed.”
> 
> “Yeah, I know. He’s made better arguments when Mum wanted to try something new for dinner.” 
> 
> “For good reasons.” Lily laughed. “Remember that fish thing? Blech. It was funny though. I’d never seen Dad turn so red. I almost wished she’d cook it again.”
> 
> “He swore the fish was swimming inside him for days.” Al joined in the laughter. “But wait.” He thought for a second. “About the debate. There’s something I forgot to mention. When the floor opened for discussion, Dad … you know him, when he loses it he can be rather—”
> 
> “Loud?” Her eyes widened with curiosity.
> 
> “Honest. He told the pure-blood that it was people like him who would slave for Voldemort. He meant the people who sell their conscience, but it didn’t quite come out that way.”
> 
> “What does it matter? He’s defending the pure-bloods. It wouldn’t make sense if he actually thought they’re evil incarnates. People understand that, right? Then what happened?”
> 
> Al shrugged. “Nothing, really. Everyone just stared at him for a bit. He stared back. That's what he’s really good at. You know, though, Lils, that a lot of pure-bloods don’t buy it—his sincerity, that is. They say he’s ruined them and is now making a show that he cares.”
> 
> “Dad? Making a show?” The hallway echoed with giggles again. Lily put on a dreamy voice and sang, “If pigs could fly and Voldemort became Rapunzel—”
> 
> “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” Al began to laugh himself. 
> 
> “Anyway. Got to go.” She gave him a quick hug. “Rose and I are updating the Marauder’s map in the common room. Are you heading back to Hufflepuff? It’s almost curfew.”
> 
> “Oh,” Al quirked his lips. “I’m stopping by the Trophy Room. Half an hour is plenty time to slay Chris on the chessboard.”
> 
> “Chess. Really.” Lily squinted behind her spectacles. _Something wicked this way comes_. “I wonder, does my favorite badger like doing it doggy-style?”
> 
> “Lily Luna!” Al almost shouted. “We… we’re not doing it yet!” 
> 
> “ _Yet_! I see!” A triumphant grin on her face, Lily began running down the hallway. “Have fun and see you later!”
> 
> “Hey!” Al called as she merged with the darkness. “Will I ever see you at breakfast again?”
> 
> “I've got magical Taichi!” she yelled back.
> 
> “There’s no magical Taichi!”
> 
> “I’ll tell you when there is!” The hem of her robe disappeared around the corner.
> 
> Al shook his head with a smile and walked down the empty corridor. Chess demanded concentration; he gathered his focus and ran through his new winning strategies in his head.
> 
> Then, everything went black.  
> 

~*~

“Up, you.”

Al woke on cold, hard steel, his eyes barely had time to adjust to the light when he was dragged off the operation table, his arms twisted to his back. The sickly, saccharine smell of lavenders inundated the room. His life had been salvaged from their raid somehow.

He heard Draco's _Apparate_. Its loud pop. Then the waterfall was arching above them, a flying buttress that drummed in his ears and clouded his vision with mist.

Draco threw Al onto the ground. Sharp rocks, all crystalline white, jabbed into Al's bare skin, already tarnished by the innumerable sores and blisters from the Horcrux withdrawal. The sheen of the newly-applied salve only garnered more attention to their still angry shade, the sharp red flooding over the last tendril of purple lingering in Al’s mind.

Shielded by an Impervius Charm, Draco drew his hawthorne wand and pressed its tip into Al’s forehead. Wind, Al realized, was borne in the violence of water. Black silk billowed in its wake. 

“So you want to play martyr, take care of the sick and nobly sacrifice your life in doing so. You don’t care about dying, do you?” The drawl, yet to fully recover from illness, was hoarse but clear. The wand tip stabbed harder into Al's skin. “So you want to die. The wards of _Water_ end five steps behind you.” Draco took a measured step and shoved Al backwards with it. “And you’ll go though the equivalent of what Gringotts thieves go through—chained in place and mauled by dragons.” 

A swish of the wand etched a long gash on Al’s chest. Though shallow, Al’s reflex made him retreat another step.

“Maybe you think I won’t do it. Draco Malfoy, the one who’s no murderer. It’s down in the history books. But I’m not the one doing the killing. My mercy, existent or not, has no place here. You’ve been shown enough mercy without my contribution.” 

One more step. The wand tip drifted upward and to the right, lifting strands of dark hair to reveal a non-existent scar. 

“You’ve wasted your father’s time. You’ve wasted the Potter name by being the greatest coward I’ve ever known. Look at yourself now.” A silent curse forced Al to turn his head down and sideways, looking into the pools of water under him. “Tell me, which part of this mangled, pathetic face of yours resembles a hero? Do remember I speak as a former servant of Voldemort. Not exactly a member of your father’s fan club.”

The broken flesh had not spared his face. Al could barely recognise himself. 

The _Imperius_ dissolved then, but not before Draco took another step.

“You’ll not waste my time, my name, my potions.” The wand moved downward until stopped, finally, at Al's throat. “If you want to end it all, if life as the son of the Man Who Lived is not worth living, one more step is all you need.” He retrieved Al’s wand from his boot and dropped it at his feet. “Help yourself.”

Draco then turned and began to head back towards the tower. “But if you change your mind—” a gust lifted his veil, revealing a corner of his face as it stole his voice away. “—my offer to remove the Memory is still good.”

~*~

Night fell. The water was cold and more violent. Curled up with his knees against his chest, Al remained on the same spot as he had been when Draco had retreated into the tower. He felt no hunger, only warmth of the urine that had just trickled down his thigh.

Magnesium fires shone in the atrium of _Water_ , an ethereal backdrop to the silhouette watching him from behind the glass.

As it had watched for the entire day.

~*~

Dawn had broken. Al must have fallen asleep somehow.

He felt warmth. A drying spell had been cast on him, but the ghostly brush that was _Scourgify_ never came. Instead, Al felt himself shedding weight, as if sprouting wings in his sleep.

He had yet to gain enough strength to fly, but he managed to take off, levitated by a lean but strong arm behind his back and another behind his knees. 

Then came a sigh and a whisper. “You Potters are all certified nutjobs.” 

Circling the neck tighter with his own arms, Al buried his face deeper against the smooth silk on the shoulder.

  
  
  



	9. Water — III

——— III. ———

  


Dreams faded, not to the usual black and white décor but a brilliant shade of red. Al patted the blanket wrapped around him. It was stiff. 

The sun was shining high. 

“Stay where you are.” He heard and turned to look. Draco was sitting on the edge of the bed, a pot of salve and a brush sat in his gloved hands.

Turning back to face the shelves, Al pushed the blanket aside and let it slip on to the carpet. His bare flesh cooled in the air. Bristles soon feathered against the back of his neck. The salve stung as it melted into his skin. 

One by one, Draco inspected and treated the wounds—three circles of different pressures by the brush, followed by a swipe and a warming spell. 

They didn’t talk. As time passed, Al lost the ability to do so. His body had not been shown such great care since it'd grown into a man. His heart pounded as the brush caressed its way down his calves towards his heels.

The sheets behind him ruffled. The dip along the edge of the bed shifted, accompanied by Draco’s voice. “Lie flat on your back.” 

Al stayed still. 

“Al?”

“Can’t,” he whispered, his legs bent in a futile attempt to hide the intersection between them.

The wooden handle of the brush fell lightly against the edge of the pot.

“Merlin. You’re a teenager.” 

Al felt a spell again, similar to the _Imperius_ under the waterfall but much gentler. It nudged him onto his back and dissolved. 

“Save your modesty for your whoring out there,” Draco said, his warm breath flowing under the veil to ghost over Al’s chest.

“I don’t whore.” Al looked up to escape the view of his own erection.

The brush began its sketch of brisk circles.

“I don’t ask for money.”

A smooth swipe. The brush dipped into the pot once more.

Al glanced sideways. Draco appeared transfixed on the wounds. Al's answers apparently held little significance—or truth—to him. A sheen of sweat had beaded under the veil, the face below was flushed. 

The room was warming to the summer’s heat. 

“Why are you bundled up? You can touch me.”

The stroke of the brush came to an abrupt halt.

“Not getting paid only means you’re the cheapest whore in Knockturn.” Draco resumed his motion then, smearing more ointment than necessary on the skin below. “What an accomplishment. Do you get an Order of Merlin for that?”

Al chewed his lip and looked away. He thought of the old toy trunk in his bedroom with his dad’s medal gathering dust inside. 

Silence ensued as the brush traveled down his abdomen. Al’s breathing hitched. He closed his eyes and willed himself to lose track of it. Warm spots of fluid moistened his skin with the salve, light enough to be felt but too heavy to be water. Draco’s sweat, Al chanted in his mind, they had to be. He wasn’t about to …

A few bristles strayed from their path and grazed the crown of his sensitive length. Al’s hips thrust upward. “Oh—”

The brush somersaulted into the pot as Draco sprang back, barely avoiding contact. Al’s palm dampened as it pressed and curled against his hard, leaking cock.

“I want you to … take care of yourself before I go on.” Draco’s voice was low and unsteady. “I’ll return in ten minutes.” His eyes flitted towards Al’s groin. “That should be plenty of time.” 

The black silk robe, well-tailored and drenched in sweat, clung onto Draco as he stood. The smooth sheen accentuated the swollen contour between the thighs. 

Al had not flinched at the most perversed, most debauched acts in the rookery, yet his face began to burn. Sex felt too crude in a tower of glass, inhabited by one man whose own skin seemed to be forbidden. 

Draco placed the salve on the bedside table. He winced lightly as he smoothened his robe and headed towards the door.

“For your last question—” Draco's voice was quiet “—I do not wish to touch you because if I do, there may come a time when I won't be able to stop, even if you want me to.” 

His words soon faded behind the door. “And you, Al, should never have to go through that again.”

~*~

Al had never seen anyone work the silverware and clean the plate so fast without compromising cleanliness or manners.

The week’s worth of groceries from Scorpius had been scrubbed brutally in and above the kitchen sink. Flustered beyond compare, Draco had burned through dozens of gloves just to set the cleaning into motion. He would have needed more without Al's help. 

A bit of parchment lay on the counter. _Fuck you_ , it shouted in bright red that had only got louder after the many _Scourgify_ s Draco had cast upon it. Al was sure the note would be treasured in a safe later.

“I can make dinner every night if you like, Mr Malfoy.”

~*~

“Do you take care of everyone this way?” Draco was applying yet another salve on Al’s forearm, the fourth one in two weeks. He merely offered an upward glance at the question.

Al had taught himself to wait.

“Everybody knows to find his lifesaver before he starts to rot.”

“You were sick.”

“A vat of Horcrux was sitting in the lab. You’d have found it within a half-hour if you cared to look.”

“Horcrux? That’s the name of the potion?”

The brush was set aside. Lips thinned behind the veil as gloved hands reached out and proceeded to rub the ointment into Al’s skin. There was always a tremor in the touch, easily felt through the many layers of gloves; the hesitance before the contact was not lost as well. 

Sometimes, Al was almost certain that the tremor, the hesitance was part of the healing. 

“Why did you move me into Scazza’s room?”

Draco’s attention turned to Al’s shoulder when he replied. “Midas touch. Have you heard of that?”

“Um. Yeah. I suppose.”

“Imagine you’re Midas and gold is all I can touch,” he said quietly, his fingers lingering on the skin as he searched for other sores that had yet to heal completely. “I haven’t been into this room for ... a while.”

Al thought for a moment. With a smile he knew he shared with his mum and twin uncles, he took his wand on the bedside table and Summoned the Slytherin tie on a box. Turning on his side to face Draco, he threw the tie on his shoulder, looped one end around his neck and patted the other against his bare chest. “Does it mean you can touch this now? Aside from the bed I’m lying on?”

Draco’ eyes flickered towards his neck and gave a curt nod.

Neither spoke for a while. Draco’s breaths managed to make themselves heard against the splashes of the waterfall. Every now and then, his eyes stole another glimpse at the tie.

“Then if—” What had consumed him, Al did not know. But he reached out, his fingers extended. 

The rubbing stopped. Gloved hands froze in place as Al pressed lightly against the veil and traced his fingertips along the bridge of Draco’s nose and his lips, just like how Draco had touched him the other day. “—if the veil isn’t here,” Al asked, “does this mean you can touch yourself?” 

The air stilled between them. A furrow deepened between the faint eyebrows. The eyes, calm and steady like lake water just moments before, simmered with rage. 

“I told you to never, ever touch me.”

Al retreated, burnt by a flame not from Draco, but from that scar on his hip.

“I didn’t, did I?” 

Draco stood, a swell prominent under the robe. He threw the pot of salve on the bedside table and strode out of the room. 

Moments later, a train of loud crashes thundered across the tower.

“Merlin.” Al dashed out of the room.

~*~

Shards cut into Al’s feet, into the freshly healed wounds. The once-clear floor sparkled scarlet behind him. Shattered glass paved the hallways; Draco had blasted the walls with magic as he made his way through the living quarters.

The sound of a shower emitted from the master bedroom.

His back pressed against the wall, Al peered into a bathroom through an open archway. It was sunlit; a pair of dragon hide boots lay strewn just steps away from him and black silk lay rumpled at the center of the floor, in front of a shower cubicle more spacious than the Burrow’s dining room. 

Water splattered against the clear glass of the cubicle, sufficient to wash away some details but not enough to conceal what was happening inside.

The sight should have driven Al away, but he could not move. 

Draco had shed to his most intimate layer of gray. His veil had remained, so did the gloves Al had seen in the study. The same material shrouded his body; pale flesh could be seen beneath its translucence.

At the moment, one of Draco’s hands was frantically pumping his cock, his hips thrusting at full force while his other hand reached between his legs. The movement was awkward, graceless; his grip kept slipping with the layers of gauze in between, and his search for deep pleasure accomplished little but gathered the fabric between his thighs. Looking more pained than pleasured, Draco’s sharp profile jutted against the water, its lips mouthing gasps and moans that were lost in the splashes until orgasm approached— 

_Al_.

It was just loud enough to be heard. Draco’s knees then buckled and he collapsed onto the floor, his one hand still pulling meekly on his spent erection. 

The spray from the shower wilted into a drizzle. Draco slouched there for a moment, panting, before he buried his face into his arm, the veil sagging with its weight to reveal a strand of silverblond hair. 

It was quiet at first. Then, quiet sobs serrated the heavy, humid air. 

Al did not know how long he'd stood there, how long he'd watched the lone figure coiled up behind the glass, lamenting a predicament with tears that nobody would see or hear. 

The image was so foreign, yet so familiar—

With all his might, Al unclenched his fist from the corner of the wall and tore himself away.

~*~

“You saw me.”

Draco, fully donned in black silk again, had resumed the treatment just after sunset. 

Al stiffened on the bed.

“Footprints. You left them everywhere.” 

Right. He had forgotten about clearing his trail. Upon stumbling back into Scazza’s room, Al had retrieved every piece of broken toy in the boxes and made a show of repairing them. He had only managed to disassemble them into unrecognizable pieces.

“You must think I’m a pervert, like those pathetic, middle-aged wizards getting off with Memories from the attic shops.” The swelling around Draco’s eyes had yet to subside. 

"No."

Draco smiled and shook his head. Silence ensued before he let out a snicker. “At least you didn’t see me cry and try to kill me.” 

“Why would I do that?” Al looked away as Draco reached for a scab on his inner thigh. 

The rubbing slowed. “Your father never told you then.” 

Al swallowed. Even amidst an onslaught of lavenders, his mind had saved the memory of that evening probably because Draco had first touched him, skin-to-skin. Because Draco could not remember with his high fever. “You didn’t like my dad too, did you?” 

“Your father is straight as a Bludger’s bat, happily married and has three children.”

“You have Scazza.”

“Scorpius was conceived through magical insemination. His mother was a surrogate.” Al couldn’t help but stare at Draco. “Ancient spell. The children could be rather … unconventional.” He turned to the Slytherin tie Al had tied around the bedpost, a weak smile on his lips as he reached for another potion. “It shows. You know him well?”

“Not really. And you haven’t answered my question.” 

Draco looked up from tending the scar on Al’s hip, finally starting to fade years after its infliction.

“My dad.”

Capping the potion vial, Draco inspected the scar again and cast a drying spell with his wand.

“Things between the Potters and the Malfoys are never that simple, are they?” He asked lightly, brushing—caressing—the scar for the last time before handing a clean silk robe to Al. 

He pondered, long enough for Al to dress as his answer gained weight and sank in Al's stomach. 

“I'm taking you to the library. I have something to show you.”

~*~

Dark, damp chill prevailed in the lowest level of _Water_. A faint mist cloaked the pair of lighting spheres trailing Draco and Al through sparse rows of mostly-empty shelves.

Deep roars echoed in the distance.

“My neighbours,” Draco said as he turned at a corridor. “This level is devoted to scattered records. They mostly belong to families that had abandoned pure-blood traditions and were no longer interested in recording their history.” He examined the books on the upper shelf and Summoned a volume.

“This is the only one I have on the Potters. It'd sat in a crypt in the Greengrass Mansion for years. The two families must have connected by marriage centuries ago. To say the Greengrasses were less than happy to find this during the Relocation was an understatement. This—” he directed the volume towards Al with his wand “—could have spelled your father’s demise during the war.”

The leather-bound cover was black. Al flipped through the pages filled with illustrations, all in red ink. Some were animated but with less detailed artwork.

“I daresay the Potters were illiterate.” Draco said with a smirk. 

The drawings were at once intriguing and repulsive. They depicted curses—stationary panes that showed the techniques and moving panes that illustrated the outcome. 

But it was the small print at the bottom of the page that caught Al’s attention. It were written in identical format as what he'd seen in the operating room. He took note of it, then turned over the next few pages and read the print on those as well. Two surnames and their adjacent symbols were consistent:

_+: Malfoy_

_-: Potter_

He looked up.

“You’ve noticed,” Draco said. “A minus means the spell works poorly, while a plus means the spell works particularly well. In this case, inflicts extra damage. The Potter-Malfoy rivalry apparently went as far as our earliest ancestors. The Malfoy spell books had the reverse indications.”

“This was ages ago …”

“The consequences are lasting. Go to _F_. Look for _Fiendfyre_.”

Al stopped leafing through the pages. “You mean the one my dad got you out of?”

“That he told you. What a surprise.” At a distant roar, the lighting spheres grew wings again and flocked together. The spark of light complemented the fondness in Draco's eyes.

“He didn’t. My dad almost never talks about the war—about anything, really. Uncle Ron …”

The moving frame on the page he had turned to consumed his attention. A whirlwind of ashes charged towards and blinded the victim, then beasts sprung from the fire and tore the victim apart. _+: Malfoy_ once again headlined the small print. 

“But yes, your dad saved me from a Fiendfyre. I suffered a minor burn in our escape and your father probably did as well, but it healed for him. Whereas I …” He paused and stared at the illustration. “Ashes have blown around me since that day. At first, all I’d seen were a few spots of dust; the Dark Lord’s magic had displaced the Manor’s maintenance charms, I’d thought, but then they grew. Now they’re everywhere, on everyone except your dad and you. Dark. Dense. Filthy.” He then looked into the far wall, as if he could see the dragons on the other side. “Sooner or later, the beasts will come.”

“But your friend cast the spell, not my dad …”

“ _Friend_. Is that what your Uncle called him?” Draco’s lips curled. “While pure-bloods have kept records, many have been lax in passing on the history and traditions. So much of what we understood about magic has been debunked as myths that even the truths are treated with suspicion.” 

With a flick of his wand, one of the lighting spheres folded its wings and hovered above Al. After a momentary pause, it plunged towards the book.

The spherical shell warped and melted. Exposed, the magnesium fires flickered and died.

“The records of every family recognise magic that is foreign to them. I cannot hold the book in your hand, as the lighting spheres I’ve conjured cannot touch it. Not so much because I’m a Malfoy but because my magic belongs to a rival element.”

“Element?” The remnants of the sphere smeared the Fiendfyre demonstration with ashes. Al brushed a finger against them and they vanished into the parchment. 

Draco looked away. He drew his attention to the volumes on the shelf, each of different size and color.

“Magic derives from nature, hence its power and fluidity. The magic of every bloodline is traceable to a major and a minor element, which define its strengths and weaknesses. Earth is subtle and the most versatile. The Gamp family is a major Earth and minor Fire; you touched its records the other day—unpleasant, but they didn’t hurt you. The Flints are also major Earths, but as Leo taught me, they aren’t minor Fires.” He sighed. “Their Flint records are in cryptograms. Their translation was lost long ago.” 

“Wind is isolationist: neither compliments or undermines other elements, strong in its unpredictability. That leaves fire and water, equal in strength but violently opposed to one another.” At these words, Draco turned and met Al’s eyes. “The Potters and Malfoys are special, if you will, because both families opted for the same major and minor element. Fire and Water.”

Draco cast several protective spells on himself before taking the book from Al. Still, the pages hissed as he flipped through them. “Why? Power, pure and simple. Elements are meant to co-exist, hence the more one is isolated, the more it trajects to reunite with the other elements. This driving force renders single elemental magic extremely powerful. Single Fire and Single Water, in particular, because these elements are already, by nature, incompatible. Winds can carry fire, water can flood the earth, but fire and water can never mix. Each is therefore always in dire need of the other, even if their meeting must lead to annihilation.”

“Sounds like a tacky romance,” Al mumbled. 

“Doesn’t it?” Draco raised his eyebrows in amusements as he watched the instructions on Fiendfyre again. “Fiendfyre, needless to say, favors fire magic. It works wonderfully against the Malfoys, who excel in aqueous spells—potion-making, for example.”

“The Sorting Hat in Hogwarts is a fraud. it’s merely grouping the students by the element of their familial magic. Is your mother less ambitious than Crabbe or Goyle? Percy Weasley does not possess an ounce of courage in him. But the Hat started to believe in its ability to judge a character—a yet to be fully-developed one, I may add. Scorpius would have suffered in Gryffindor. You, on the other hand, would have done better.” 

Draco snapped the book shut and Levitated it onto the shelf.

“This quadrant, you can say, is a House your father built for me.” The last lighting sphere leading his steps, Draco paced towards the far end of the corridor. “Glass, amorphous as liquid but forged in flames, preserves my Water magic and checks the Fiendfyre. The flames are from your father and his Fire magic.” 

The wall before Draco was mired with cracks, finer and denser than the ones in the study. Splinters snowed the floor beside Draco’s boots. “But glass is fragile. the Fire and Water holding it together will fight inside it until the tower falls. This will not last. I will not last.”

This was not a plea for pity. Not when Draco sounded so proud, as if the gift from Al’s dad was as much a help as an inconvenience.

“My dad can re-build it, can’t he?”

“He can. But your dad ....” Draco ran his fingers along the fissures. “His mixed-blood heritage is showing. He’s aging like a Muggle, maybe even faster because of his strong magic. Your mother will be a widow for half of her life, she knows that. Even I may probably outlive him.” 

He turned towards Al. “You asked me if I liked your father. It’s irrelevant. I need him.”

“They’re not the same.”

“They can be, if the need runs deep in your blood—”

“Liking,” Al chewed his lower lip, “comes from here.” He tapped his chest. 

“Listen to who just complained about tacky romances.” Draco laughed, but even the echoes were bitter. “Malfoys don’t have a heart. Ask anyone.”

Silence overtook them until Al spoke again. “What if I build this place? Do you—will you—need me the same way as you need him?”

“I asked myself the same questions the day Scorpius brought you here, under the waterfall.”

Draco knelt in front of the wall. A jar had appeared and he filled it with the glass dust. 

“I took you in, almost against my judgment. If you can remind me, for just a moment, the intimacy of human touch, or if you can save me, for just a day, from a certain, horrible death, all it means is I will be at the mercy of another Potter.”

He stood, the lighting sphere washing away his last trace of colour. “If I'd been valiant enough, I would have left you to die. The Potter-Malfoy rivalry would have come to a draw, in which everyone loses, as our magic, our history has meant it to be.”

With these words, Draco had carried the jar down the corridor, back to the main hallway and towards a dark, empty corner on the other end. Al followed him.

There, a mound of jars stacked neatly on top of one another, each already filled with fine white splinters. Draco placed the new one at the pinnacle. 

“But then I watched you,” he said quietly to the mausoleum of glass, “and realized that you’ve already ceded your present, not to say your future, to a Memory of the past. My needs—my fears—will hardly change my destiny at all.”

  
  
  



	10. Water — IV

——— IV. ———

  


_Water_ was quiet, its master still asleep in the glorious morning plated gold by the season. Al took a puff of his inhaler and tapped his wand on the small heap of glass.

The shards lost their sharp corners, then smoothed and bent like the petals of a blooming flower before they flowed to fuse into one another. Al could feel his magic draining to the orange heat, but the sensation was not unpleasant. A part of him seemed to be becoming whole with the glass, like a torn something meeting its missing pieces. 

Slowly, he coiled the molten glass around his wand and patched the broken edge of the wall.

~*~

The repairs took weeks. Al’s handiwork was decent, but the texture of his glass was noticeably different from his dad’s.

Nothing was ever mentioned, but Al had found Draco standing behind the new glass, looking through it as though the view beyond was a mystery to him. On the third day, he had come to Scazza’s room with yet another salve, specifically for Al’s fresh scratches from the repairs. 

Draco was taking longer to apply the salve these days. He seemed to be waiting for something—something Al had lost and could not recall. Al pretended not to notice, as he pretended not to notice the gloved hands’ lingering touches and his own body’s eagerness to meet them As Draco pretended not to notice one evening, when Al succumbed to his needs and came while Draco was tending to the almost healed scar on his inner thigh.

Back in Knockturn, Al would have long ago offered himself for a fuck—in a dark alley in _Fire_ , a stuffy warehouse in _Wind_ or a nameless potion den in _Earth_. But the silk and veil were reminders of Draco’s inaccessibility, and the almost-healed scar on his hip that Draco looked at everyday, a reminder of Al’s free will stolen from him in the past.

The choices of what to give, whom to give it to.

The choice of memories—what to remember, what to forget. 

What they both needed, perhaps, was a reversal of fortune.

~*~

The study had all he needed. Al zipped on a pair of boots and donned a fresh pair of gloves. The coronet presented some problems, his hair being unable to stay put within its confines, but the veil flowing down from it was long enough to shroud his face.

He Apparated back to the living quarters before slipping into the master bedroom. Draco was fast asleep, his gloved hands holding on to a corner of the pillow. The early morning sun had broken through the veil, its rays warming the cool gray. It was impossible to ignore how youthful the face beneath it still was. 

With a more than noticeable tremor, Al let his fingers creep under the hem and lift it by a little. His breath caught as the chin, with its light gold stubble, first revealed itself before his eyes. 

Draco stirred and turned to his back. Al retracted his hand and the veil fluttered back in place. Just before it came still, a whisper could be heard.

 _Al_. 

Caution be damned.

He crawled on the bed and straddled the man resting. Before his courage could dissipate in the sunlight, he grabbed the two corners of the veil and unfurled it in one move.

His heart stopped at the sight.

The skin was paler than Al thought ever possible. It clung tightly to the sharp profile—the chiseled jaw line, the narrow, slightly hooked nose, the impossibly high cheekbones that spoke both of heritage and poor cooking skills. Even the lips and the cheeks looked taunt with tension. The only soft features was the hair and it was so soft, staying meekly in place as the coronet slipped backwards and the long eyelashes, almost invisible behind the veil—

They fanned, ever so lightly.

But the eyes never opened. The movement of the lashes came to an abrupt, resolute stop and the eyelids, almost blue with veins, squeezed themselves tight.

Al got the message. He rolled the blanket quietly towards himself, as if his fear of waking Draco persisted. 

It would take two to perfect this act. 

Al’s fingers feathered the clasps on Draco’s collar before unfastening them. The neckline of the grey undergarment came into view, almost transparent in the bright morning. He slipped his hand down along the trail of buttons on the silk robe, freeing them, stopping only when he reached the blanket pooled between his own legs. 

Beneath him, Draco's breathing hastened. His eyes remained shut. 

Somehow, Al felt scrutinized—more so than when the eyes before him had been wide open, the pupils dilated with lust. He could sense the anticipation, the hope that, despite not his own, was one that only he could grasp. 

Reaching out once more, Al let his own gloved hands linger for a moment along Draco’s jaw line, seeking for the final approval, before he folded the black silk sideways to an open V. A scarlet ribbon criss-crossed along the center of the exposed undergarment, before ending at a blond trail of hair and the crown of the cock resting flat against it. 

Draco’s head had tilted sideways. Furrows sank between the eyebrows. His lips, dry and parted, surrendered nothing.

Desperation, in Al’s mind, had always come with shame. A caged bird that could feel every breeze ruffling its feathers but could not spread its wings. It had never looked so proud, so … beautiful.

Keeping watch of Draco's every reaction, Al pressed his palm against the gray fabric at the sternum. Draco’s chest expanded, as if drawn to his touch. As Al’s hand inched to Draco’s abdomen, lean muscles beneath it rippled to the same effect. Sweat beads glazed upon Draco’s skin and the gauze began to stick, gathering and pulling between Al's hand above and Draco's flesh below. 

_Touch me._ Draco’s mouth quivered in silence. 

His words formed not so much a plea as a prayer.

Al leaned forward to rest against Draco, nuzzled against Draco’s neck through his own veil. “We’ll do it together.” 

He could play Saviour, even if he no longer believed... 

It was in his blood.

Their chests heaved in synchrony. Al removed his black silk gloves, reached for Draco’s hand and did the same. He then untied the scarlet ribbon holding the innermost glove in place around Draco’s wrist, slipped his fingers through the opening and pressed them into Draco’s palm, skin-to-skin. 

The glove fell onto the bedding as Al whispered, “Hold on to me.” 

_Hold on, because only then you’d know your salvation is real. More than a dream, a desire, a reflection of your heart's mirror._

_Hold on, because salvation could drift away, even before the most watchful eyes. Listen for its departure, its heavy echoes …_

Not letting go of Draco’s trembling hand, Al pulled loose the last scarlet ribbon ribbon other his free hand and guided their still-interwoven fingers beneath the gauze, feeling the gauze retreat as they landed on smooth skin. 

Their hands came to rest above Draco’s chest, where the heart of a Malfoy thumped wildly.

“You can’t save me,” Al heard a whisper, and his eyes met Draco’s when he looked up. The irises were silver, like the hue of the silk prison he had to break out of. “You can’t save me.” Draco shook his head, his voice weak. “You can’t save me.” He closed his eyes again.

Al’s fingers tightened, pressing their hands tighter against Draco. “I can, if you want to remember …”

Draco’s eyelashes fanned slowly, their moisture glistening like morning dew in the sun. 

Al could no longer speak. _Remember yourself_ , his hands conveyed what was left unsaid as they unraveled the remaining crosses on the undergarment, inviting Draco to re-learn every inch of his own skin. 

Long, pale fingers soon pushed, probed and clawed, recreating memories that had once been private to Draco, awakening those that Al had long forgotten—of flesh unmarred by nothing but perspiration, of touches fervent only for their reverence. 

When their hands reached Draco’s groin, Al slipped his hand behind Draco’s, relinquishing control so Draco could take the lead. 

There was hesitance, but only momentarily. Modesty was no match to the most primal—and human—instinct. Draco closed his fingers around his hard length, his face turned sideways as his own touch began to lead him towards pleasure. 

Al retreated, almost by instinct. It was not the exposure, or the intimacy; this moment simply could not belong to him for its intent was too simple, too pure.

“Don't,” Draco's other hand lifted just in time to capture Al’s hand in place. Accusations and slivers of hurt flashed in his eyes, but they were brief. Those eyes softened and never let Al go again as Draco moved once more, Al’s hand in his, and every morsel of building heat, every stroke in frantic urgency sent shockwaves to their collective senses until Draco erupted with a shout.

Neither stirred afterwards. Draco’s release, white and pearly, trickled down their hands, dried to white and flaked. Al's left a streak on his black robe at his groin. 

“You can’t even save yourself.” Spent, Draco watched the waterfalls again, his voice barely audible. “What makes you think you can save me?”

Al bent forward, yanked the already-slipping coronet from his head and threw it across the room. The next moment, he was looking into Draco’s eyes, his palms cupping Draco’s face. 

“I’m a Potter.”

“You—”

“I'm a Potter, and that's good enough.”

Al pressed his lips against Draco’s, searching for the clarity he had once sought behind the veil. Still, it eluded him, blurred by yet another veil before his eyes—one fell like the waterfall outside the tower—and Al refused to acknowledge its source, not even when he could taste salt on his lips. Draco returned the favor, his kisses soft and measured to complement Al’s ravenous ones.

And in those kisses, Al found what he had lost.

“Please, Mr Malfoy,” he heard himself say, the words Draco had been waiting for all along. “Please. Please take away the Memory from me.”

~*~

The lavenders had been ground to a mauve-coloured paste in the mortar. On the other side of the workbench, Draco sprinkled a handful of rattling seeds into a pewter cauldron. The smoke above whitened, twisted and morphed into claws in the air.

“The Horcrux sequesters the body and soul of the drinker for itself, freeing them from the clutch of other abuses.” Stirring the brew with his one hand, Draco deflected the smoke away with his wand in the other. “At peak dosage, the drinker’s life, his sanity, is completely at its mercy. It earns its name for that reason.” Draco’s voice remained level as he multitasked. “As it turns out, powerful memories are agents of addiction.” 

Al scooped up a little of the lavender paste. With their essence drained to nil, the remains of the flowers were tough and bitter.

“You've been at the peak for more than a fortnight, I only withheld the antidote to give you time. Time to consider my offer.”

Draco could not be giving him time in _Water_ just for this. This morning was real. The touches and kisses were real.

And yet, everything on the workbench had been waiting in the cabinets, in the cauldrons.

“What are powerful memories?” He swallowed yet another spoon of bitterness.

“Powerful memories," Draco repeated softly. "They're the memories that elicit strong emotions. The memories that are resurrected over and over again: inescapable, unavoidable.” His eyes behind the veil met Al’s for longer than usual. 

The smoke eventually lost its malice. Draco shrunk the claws and distributed them into jars, but his attention flickered towards Al’s direction every now and then. When he realized that Al had noticed, he let out a barely suppressed sigh. 

“You’ll understand what I mean after tonight.” 

Al picked up another bite of the paste, a bigger one than he could swallow. 

Draco was withholding more than the antidote from him.

~*~

The plan was simple. Al would retrieve the Memory and put it in the Pensieve, and Draco would transfer and lock it into a glass cylinder. They had until sunrise to complete the steps, and the final and strongest dose of the Horcrux, which Al had ingested in the form of lavender paste, would uproot the Memory from him forever.

There was only one price to pay. Al would have to revisit the Memory once more and in every detail, but that had to be expected. Al would survive one more time if he knew it would be his last.

 _Good luck_ , Draco said before leaving the study. _Find me in the living quarters when you’ve got everything._ He bent and kissed Al lightly on the forehead, the veil a flowing but persistent barrier between them.

  


~ Memory: Albus Potter ~ 

  


> The auditorium, with its burgundy velvet wall coverings and mahogany furniture, materialised before him. Not a single seat among the hundreds was unoccupied. Al was down on the platform, seated on a chair guarded by Aurors.
> 
> He squinted, his eyes had yet to adjust to the torchlight while his mind still swam. An Auror was giving his testimony, stating that Al had used the MLE-assigned Portkey and travelled directly from St Mungo’s to the courtroom without incident.
> 
> Al must have been unconscious. Once he began to stir, a storm of whispers surged from the audience. Another Auror produced a vial and offered it to him.
> 
> Colours began to stab his vision as the potion slipped down his throat. His mind cleared, the haze that had cushioned it yanked away. Suddenly, he was too aware of the hundreds of eyes fixated on him. He dropped the empty vial on the marble floor.
> 
> The broken glass silenced the crowd. Al heard a gasp and saw his mom at the front row, her hands on her mouth. 
> 
> He looked away. 
> 
> Instead, he willed himself to search for those who would deliver justice. They were easy to find, seated in the mezzanine with the best view of the water screen. As the MemorSpin, a specially designed one for presenting court evidence, began to whirl, Al found his dad in front of the Judges’ Amphitheatre, his burgundy uniform a camouflage against the decor. He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows on knees and face half-buried between clasped hands.
> 
> Al twisted the twill of his trousers and looked away as well. 
> 
> Some confusion remained at the start of his Memory, at the intersection between the recovered and untouched. The chess tactics occupying his mind right before the attack remained in chaos, but once the Peruvian Darkness Powder rained upon the corridor, the scenes became crystal clear. He was punched and hexed, his book bag, along with his inhaler, stripped away with his torn robe. In no time he found himself in a deserted room with little but an ornate, floor-to-ceiling mirror—the Mirror of Erised—and that was then the suspects began to show their faces.
> 
> They pinned him against a wall, throwing insults that revealed little thought but hatred of his surname. He fought back, but was soon overcome with coughs and wheezes. A dagger was drawn in the chaos and his fate was sealed when it sliced into his right hip. As the blade drew blood amidst howling laughter, Al knew for certain that the assailants were inebriated beyond reason. 
> 
> And there was no escape. The darkest hours of his life had descended.
> 
> A rape was what it was—brutal, ugly. It was no surprise then, that soon he would lie naked on the stone floor, with his wrists bound and locked above his head. That soon hands would claw all over him, would force his legs apart and—
> 
> Al in the Memory screamed. The auditorium went stone still.
> 
> Al's fists were clenching, reaching for and grabbing the robes that had piled beside him, trying to seek purchase on to something, anything that would give him an illusion of a fighting chance. He twisted his head sideways, resolutely avoiding the flushed, panting face a breath’s distance above him, and stared into the mirror— 
> 
> In the courtroom, Harry Potter shot up from his seat.
> 
> The eyes behind the glasses widened and stared at the water screen, where an image of himself had appeared in the mirror and fended off the aggressors with his wand.
> 
> One of the judges, pale as parchment, seized the opportunity to demand an accelerated play for the rest of the Memory. As long as they could track the discrepancies between who Al saw and who violated him in Cylinder 090921, the identity of the assailants could be substantiated.
> 
> Al’s dad stood for the remainder of the presentation. His image re-emerged many times on the water cascade—sometimes donned in his Auror uniform, other times dressed in the clothes he had worn when he'd defeated Voldemort—but failed, all the same, to be his son’s Saviour. As the night dragged on, his face in the reflection began to lose its features, then the edges of his silhouette turned hazy and dissolved until all that remained was a shadow. 
> 
> Then, nothing. 
> 
> The Mirror of Erised showed nothing but Al sprawled on the floor, his skin covered with scratches and dried come. His swollen lips could let through no more than a whimper, which he didn't make. His thighs, spotted with dried blood, remained splayed even when the feral laughs had turned into snores.
> 
> He lay awake for the rest of the night. He lay there, inexpressive and motionless, when commotion broke out as the first ray of sunlight broke in, when the rapists, still under influence, fired a slew of defective Memory Charms at him and fled the scene.
> 
> No one in the courtroom seemed to notice when the whirl of the MemorSpin had stopped. The silence was so intense that even a feather under _Wingardium Leviosa_ could be heard, until a series of slow, heavy echoes resonated in the courtroom.
> 
> It was Al’s dad. One step after another, his worn boots carried him up the stairs towards the foyer of the auditorium. His head remained bowed, never for once turning to look the judges, to whom he should have excused himself before leaving, or his son, who—because of him, his surname, his judgement—had to live through the crime, the shame not just once, but twice.
> 
> No one stopped him. No one dared to. He was almost at the entrance when Al’s mum seemed to wake from her trance and stood. She looked at her son, her husband and then her son again, at a loss of what to do. 
> 
> Uncle Ron, seated several rows behind her, stood right after she did. He motioned at her to stay and leapt his way up the stairs, three steps at a time, to chase his partner and his friend. The oak double door closed behind him.
> 
> On the platform, Al began to cry.  
> 

  
  


~*~

Al took another swig of Firewhisky and traced the faint glow moving behind the glass walls. He shifted to make himself more comfortable.

A wand tip lit with _Lumos_ appeared under the archway. Its owner followed. Only a slight falter in Draco’s steps gave away his shock at finding Al on his bed.

 _Maybe—_ Al tipped the bottle in his hand to finish the last drop— _maybe he'd expected this all along._

Three lighting spheres rose between them. Draco stood by the bedside with a frown, demanding an explanation. 

The empty bottle slid from Al’s fingers onto the glass floor. He pulled aside the blanket wrapped around him and invited the light of the magnesium fires to shine between his legs. Elated by the light hitch in Draco’s breathing, he arched his hips, took Draco’s hand and placed it on his cock, which he had coaxed to hardness in the past hour.

“Take me, Mr Malfoy. I beg you.” 

For an instant, the long, gloved fingers almost succumbed to the temptation. They lingered along the length, the fabric smooth and cool against Al's protruding vein, his hot, engorged flesh.

But they stopped. Behind the veil, Draco’s eyes remained downcast as the thinned lips uttered a simple word. 

“No.”

A swell was forming under the black silk robe, just above Al’s line of sight. He reached for it, pressed his palm upward to feel the contour. “You want this as badly as I do.”

Draco didn't refute. Instead, to Al’s surprise, he slowly removed his veil with one hand while his other held on to his lit wand. Silver blond locks cascaded down towards his neck. 

“I don’t take advantage…”

“You're not if I'm offering it to you.”

“You're drunk. Go back to your room.”

Al went on his knees. His height matched Draco’s and their faces were barely a breath length apart. He squinted it then, that chill behind in the gray irises, subtle only for its depth—

“You knew.”

He dared Draco meet his own eyes. Draco turned away.

“You knew,” Al whispered once more as he cupped and scanned the face before him, his insides freezing to the chill he'd just fallen into. There was still a veil there, he realized, of sympathy that masked the severity of those sharp features... 

It's placed there to mock Al and his stupidity and for the first time in three years, Al felt rage. A storm brewed in his mind's eye, fanned the embers of an unknown hatred he hadn't known he had — 

He attacked the man before him. He shredded the silk at the collar and pressed his thumbs against the exposed neck. 

Draco choked and fell onto the bed. His hawthorne wand clattered on the floor.

Al crawled on him and straddled him, held him down with his weight. Draco was not fighting back. He locked Draco in place with his forearm and ripped the front panel of the black robe. The shriek of ripping silk thrilled him, a battlecry for revenge. He found the scarlet ribbon of the undergarment and tore at it next, and when it wouldn't budge, he pulled and pulled until the hoops holding it in place gave in. 

The silver gauze rolled off sideways, exposing Draco's chest to the cold magnesium fires. There was something Al hadn't noticed before, razor-thin and pale...

Al's windpipe constricted.

“You knew all along,“ he cried between wheezes as he collapsed on top of Draco. “You knew all along it wouldn’t work.”

  


~ Memory: Albus Potter ~ 

  


> The fog in the Pensieve was white, dense with the numerous strands of thoughts whirling inside.
> 
> There were still many more to retrieve. Memories embedded with the Memory. Choices that would have been made or un-made. Consequences of those choices...
> 
> Al sipped on the bottle of Firewhisky Draco had helped himself to during their first private meeting. He tapped his wand on his temple again.
> 
> *
>
>> The red curls were gone, replaced by a simple bob. Lily looked across the glass pane of the Portkey office, her eyes red behind her glasses, her fingers cradling a Muggle pop can. James was carrying her rucksack, his arm wrapped around her shoulder.
>> 
>> “She’ll be safer in Salem before we get everyone, which we will.” Al’s dad mumbled to himself, his forced smile fading as Lily vanished behind the doors. Al's mum gave his hand a squeeze. 
>> 
>> Al's fists dug deeper into his coat.
>> 
>> *
>> 
>> The pot held more than a lubricant. Al could feel a warm tingle as he smeared its content on his still-soft length.
>> 
>> On an empty crate that was the bedside table, a cheap wooden wireless sputtered. Static filled the testimony of the Muggle-borns who owned the upstairs Pensieve factory in Elephant and Castle, admitting to producing Cylinder 090921 after being shown the Memory by some acquaintances.
>> 
>> Carelessly, Al let his feet sweep across the table and the wireless crashed onto the floor. As the noise wound into silence among a pile of splinters, he pulled the legs before him apart, aimed the tip of his cock at the opening and without so much as a glance at his bedmate, thrust himself deep into the hollow.
>> 
>> *
>> 
>> The whitewashed, cluttered backroom of Flourish & Blotts looked little like the ornate shop front. Al moved a crate to the corner before unlocking the cage for its contents, the latest edition of _Monster Book of Monsters_. The owners were kind enough to promise him, a new apprentice in charge of designing a safer inventory, with peace and minimal face time with customers.
>> 
>> Hard wood scraped against the floor, accompanied by howls of monsters angered by their captivity. Al never heard the Apparition _pop_ of the intruders.
>> 
>> A camera flash blinded him. The four reporters began to fire questions, their Quick-Quotes Quill slick against the pointed inquiries: 
>> 
>> _What’s your opinion on the passing of the Act? Do you feel safer? Justice served? Is your father for or against the measure now, knowing the tragedy that has happened to you? Does he feel responsible—_
>> 
>> Al stumbled backwards. The way they had him in a circle, the confines of the cage… . 
>> 
>> He clutched the iron padlock behind him. “Please leave. This room is for shopkeepers only.” 
>> 
>> Another flash. They inched closer.
>> 
>>  _But Mr Potter, it’s the public’s right to know …_
>> 
>> One reporter conjured a chair and two torches to create a make-shift studio. Another spelled a mirror, a floor length one—
>> 
>> Al picked up a book, yanked loose the buckle and hurled it as hard as he could. He then dashed out of the cage, grabbed his wand and Apparated.
>> 
>> He never returned, his mind caught in a frenzy of fear and imagination. The mirror—he saw himself caught inside and them closing in. He hastened through Diagon Alley, running from the panic ensnaring him, its burning chill racing up and down his spine. The many eyes staring at him along the alley violated him even more. His stomach churned and every scene he'd wished to forget—from his latest failure at employment, to the trials and the Memory—chose this moment to assault his thoughts. 
>> 
>> The dark shadows of Knockturn Alley beckoned him. 
>> 
>> Night fell. When Al re-emerged, the empty vial of the first Calming Draught he had ever bought jingled with the coins in his pocket.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> *
> 
> The scenes soon fell into a pattern, unique only in time and space. The sight and sounds of Knockturn interlaced with the touch and tastes of sex, reality shifting into vibrant, potion-induced dreams, nightmares living in a shell that was him. Nightmares dark as the void in the Mirror and muted as his unheard cries.
> 
> To remove the Memory, Al would have to remove every one of them. 
> 
> To remove every one of them, the last three years of his life—and the other’s—would have to be eradicated. The Fates would not have led him into Knockturn otherwise, would not have forced James and Lils away from home, would not have made the pure-bloods outcasts in their own world…
> 
> And his dad. The last time Al had truly seen his dad was through the closing oak double doors of the courtroom. Since then, he had never counted the grey hair that streaked the temples, had never wondered about the copious burn marks covering the arms or the shoulders that had seemed to carry the whole weight of the rookery upon them. 
> 
> Al had never questioned why the Memory had haunted Harry Potter, the most powerful wizard there was, more so than his own past.
> 
> Draco’s voice drifted into his mind. 
> 
> _Powerful memories. They're the memories that elicit strong emotions. The memories that are resurrected over and over again: inescapable, unavoidable.”_
> 
>  _Inescapable,_ he had said. _Unavoidable_
> 
> It was a paradox, and Draco knew it from the start. 
> 
> Al shoved the Pensieve onto the floor. It dented the glass floor but the stone basin remained intact, the fog inside tethered to its inner walls with invisible chains. He opened the bottle of the Firewhisky and guzzled down all he could.  
> 

~*~

The inhaler left his lips, replaced by gloved fingers that dabbed them dry. Al opened his eyes and watched Draco drop it on the floor beside the bed.

“I …” Al struggled to speak between his sobs and still-shallow breaths. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. Draco hushed him and wrapped him tighter in his arms, resting Al’s head against his own bare chest. 

The pale neck was marked with bruises. Al counted them with his fingers, then traced down the line that began right below his throat and ran along the length of Draco’s sternum.

It was that scar that had saved Al from his hate. Only in the magnesium fire’s white glow could he see it: thin as spider-silk, smooth and devoid of color. It reminded Al of the scar on his hip, the one Draco had painstakingly healed in the weeks past.

His chest had tightened then. Then his windpipe.

Draco smiled at Al’s fascination with the scar, like a doting parent indulging his child with his favorite toy. Al dried his tears and looked up, demanding an explanation. The smile became a chuckle and Draco looked aside, chewed the inside of his mouth and responded with an very out-of-character gesture—he shrugged.

With that, the silver gauze slipped off his shoulders, removing the final barrier between their bodies. Draco’s skin was warm as the hue of the fine golden hair feathering his chest. 

In no time, the skull and serpent on his forearm stole Al’s attention.

The outline was still clear, but the details within were mutilated beyond recognition. If Al hadn't seen a Dark Mark, he would have assumed that it was just an ugly tattoo—for Draco was making no effort to hide it, and the slight heave in his chest betrayed his relief at Al’s distraction from the scar. 

Then, with Al’s hand sandwiched between his own and the Dark Mark, Draco began to tell a story. The lines and hues of the scenes soon softened into a dream, light as his voice and the kisses he peppered on Al’s forehead. As his eyelids drooped with their weight, Al saw a young man offering himself to a madman to prove his worth, then, years later, scouring through a vast library for memory-eliminating potions and patching up every incomplete treatment protocol he could find. Al saw the hope in the eyes focused on simmering vat of purple potion, then, the tears that fell in despair not on a warm chest but on cold, hard glass.

A dagger came into view. Its blade, pewter-shade but iridescent with a poison, stabbed into the snakes and skull on his forearm, over and over again. The spilled blood soaked into the parchment scattered around him, lists titled with names of illnesses and written in many hues. Just before the blood devoured the ink marks, the man closed his fingers around the parchment and rescued it from his own blood— 

Al woke with a start. 

He was still curled up against the man from the dream. Draco was awake, leaning against the headboard and holding Al tightly against his chest, as he had before Al had fallen asleep. His eyes were once again trained at the waterfall while his hand petted Al idly on his back. 

Hours must have gone by. Dawn had descended upon _Water_ , upon Draco and himself. 

Draco felt his movement and nuzzled against his hair, giving time for Al to clear his sleep. 

“You’ll drink the antidote today,” he said. “Then—” the arms around Al squeezed tighter, betraying the lack of sincerity of his words, “—I want you to go home. You’ve hurt your family enough.”

~*~

The glass sat on the bench between them, the steam rising from it coiled into knots before dispersing towards the ceiling.

“This is it?” 

“This is three weeks worth of slaving. Ask the mediwizards at St Mungo’s.” Draco, dressed in his silk robe and gloves again but without his veil, gathered the unused lavenders and poured them into a glass jar. The cap spun itself tight.

Al looked at him in question.

“The dragonhorn extract and Tentacula seeds in this brew are worth more than a dozen doses of standard healing potions.” A smirk lifted a corner of Draco’s mouth. “They were traded in ancient wizarding societies for good reasons, and did little harm before our blood was mixed with the Muggle’s. Most of the medicinal potions in our records were designed for pure-bloods’ consumption.”

“The patients you didn’t take in—”

Draco nodded. “There’s nothing I can do. Sometimes, their illness was also of Muggle origin, like your coughing fits.”

The antidote tasted like mint, bitter but invigorating. Al took another sip at the sight of Draco Scourgifying a cauldron and smiled. “You’re a true Water.” 

Draco looked up. His eyes lingered on Al for a moment and lowered with a smile. 

Al finished the rest of the potion and wiped his mouth with his fingers. They stained scarlet, reminding Al of blood, of ribbons, of the bit of parchment they'd just found in the new cauldron—

“Scorpius had never been in _Water_ ,” Draco whispered. He headed for the storage cabinet and directed the filled jars onto the shelves. But the view of clean workbenches against the bland white walls must have become foreign to him, for he staggered after he turned around, taking in the emptiness of the space. 

Between Al and Leo, _Water_ had accommodated a guest for almost three seasons. Al had cooked and eaten with him for the last two months. 

“By tomorrow, this tower will be mine again.” His gloved hand made a quick swipe at the workbench, as if he'd longed for its bareness all along. The silver in his eyes was cooling to steel.

Al would hold on to the last sliver of warmth before it slipped away. “Let Scorpius in.” 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"You know him. He rolls in the mud of _Wind_ all day." 

Al shook his head. "Try again."

Draco frowned, offended. "What do you know about—"

"I know you let me in, and I'm a million times filthier than he is."

"He's got no friends here. This is a prison to him." 

"He can go out."

"His impromptu shows? He can't do them here."

"He's not doing them here now."

"He..."

For once, Draco was at a loss for words. He lined up the stools, distanced himself with them and inhaled. "Scorpius belongs to the outside. He is likable, born a star like his namesake. He can have the world in his hands if he wants ..."

"By staying in the rookery all day, waiting to get in his home?"

Draco began to shake. He stood tall and stiff. "Scorpius is not an urchin with a future as a Diagon beggar. He is not an addict." His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. "He is not a freak, not a whore ...

"Right. I remember that." Al whispered, hugged his chest with a nod. It stung, but he was not about to give up now. "You told me that. _'Who wants a whore for a child...'_

"And who wants a freak for a father?" Draco shouted. "Or for anything?"

Silence. Draco's chest heaved as he gritted his teeth. It was too late for him to take it back. Al breathed out sighs of relief. “I do.” Draco clenched his jaw at this, resolved to disbelieve. He repeated it again, "I do," before adding with a small smile. "You know, the anything part."

That broke the tension. Draco slumped against the work surface.

Memories from the previous night returned—Draco’s restraint spoke of Al’s power over him, a power only strengthened by his still-bare flesh. This would be the time to harness it. 

“Let Scorpius choose." He reached out and touched Draco's face. "Let me choose.”

Draco's mouth quivered. But then he pushed Al away gently and Accio'ed the coronet. A veil separated them once more. “You'll forget everything once you step out of _Water_.”

“Nothing can remove powerful memories.” Al nodded at the lone glass on the counter, at the residual red clinging on its walls. "You showed me."

Draco walked towards the sink, twisted on the tap to full blast and scrubbed his gloved hands beneath it. 

“There's nothing powerful about your stay.”

“I just want to know.” Al came to his side. “Do you want me to forget?”

The eyes behind the veil stared at their reflection on the small mirror above the sink—one in nothing but his own skin, one too fearful to reveal any of it. 

Draco shook his head. “You don’t belong here.”

“I am here.”

“It took me years to get used to what my life has become.” Draco closed his eyes. “This—whatever this is—is not what you think. This is, at best, infatuation on your part, and a lack of judgement on mine.” He shifted, ready to sidestep Al.

“Maybe." His tone, perhaps, was what halted Draco’s flight. Al had not sounded—or felt—so certain for a long time. "But for once, I know what I want.”

Before Draco could say anything, Al trapped him in place, wrapped him in his arms. 

“I want to remember.” He closed in and spoke to Draco's lips. “I want to remember what it means to touch." He aligned his body with Draco’s, trusting the silk to communicate more than the heat in his groin. “And what it means to be touched. You taught that the only way to overcome the Memory is to accept it, heal the wounds and move on. You taught me how to turn nightmares into something good …” 

He straightened and studied the sharp features. They're like glass, cutting but so fragile.

“But I want more now. More than a teacher. I want someone who'll make memories with me, memories that are worth reliving over and over again.”

He let his arms drop and his hands slip away from the smooth silk, freeing the man in his arms.

“You’ll find me on your bed after sunset.” Al backed away as he spoke. “If I don’t see you in an hour, I promise you, Mr Malfoy, that when morning comes, I won’t remember a thing that's happened in _Water_.”

  
  
  



	11. Water — V

——— V. ———

  


He thought Draco would disappear behind the wards. Instead, the black silk merely blurred into a silhouette—a shadow in the mist, its backdrop the translucent tower of glass.

The waterfall parted, unveiling the world from which Al had departed for over three months. The rookery basked in the late autumn sun, the cold stone buildings and dark rooftops of _Fire_ looked ablaze like the quadrant’s namesake. As Al stepped through the dry crossing, a white pelican folded its wings and landed beside him. Its head tilted for a curious look, before bending to pick up a small scroll Draco had left on the ground. The wings then spread again and it flew away.  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  


~ Memory: Draco Malfoy ~

  


> _"They could not have been more different. The father was headstrong, unyielding in his beliefs, while the son was but a lost child, his views and destiny yet to be shaped by forces other than his surname._
> 
> _They were fated to be our enemies. And they were, each in his own way. The father, of course, tore our legacy to pieces; but the son haunted me with the privileges I was born into and once took for granted, of the private battles I had fought and lost._
> 
> _If I were to name their fatal weakness, it would be this—they both define their self-worth by the number of lives they could save._
> 
> _Funny that they could always count on a Malfoy awaiting salvation, whether it meant rising above an inferno fueled by their magic, or re-kindling his senses, his hope with their touch._
> 
> _Funny that because—and in spite of—this re-ignited spirit, a Malfoy had fallen for a Potter. Twice._
> 
> _As water yearns for fire._
> 
> _— Malfoy XXIII, Draco Coeus"_
> 
>   
> 
> 
> The quill lay to rest beside the ink pot. Draco closed the white silk volume, his gloved fingers grazing the silver inscription on the cover: 
> 
> _Le coeur s’écoule dans le sang._ The heart flows in the blood.
> 
> On the desk, the glasses Draco had confiscated from Al sat in a wooden case. He was about to take it with the volume to the Malfoy archive when a thought—a foolish whim—overtook him. He Summoned a mirror and drew his veil aside, unfolded the black plastic legs and set the glasses on his nose.
> 
> Staring at his own reflection, Draco began to laugh.
> 
> He laughed so hard that tears seeped from the corner of his eyes.  
> 

  
  
  


 


	12. Aether — Epilogue

****

Epilogue: Aether

__

_The quintessence. Eternal and unchanging.  
~Aristotle_

  
  


Even Saviours slept in on weekends. 

The curtains were still drawn. Al pushed open the fence to the garden. It's warded, but only minimally. Lilies that bloomed year-round welcomed him.

The backdoor of the cottage was always unlocked. Heaps of shoes scattered in front of it, among them the bright yellow wellies that had been Al’s favorite in his pre-Hogwarts years. 

He fished inside the left one and found what he was looking for. The worn piece of parchment had been folded and re-folded, filled with a list of short messages that had grown daily for the past three months. Al squinted at the last entry, penned in his mum’s wild but beautiful handwriting:

  


> _"Al,_
> 
> _Your dad fed Elvy before going to bed and as usual “forgot” to let him into the house to check if you’ve been back, so don’t have to feed him. He also spelled some warming charms, hopefully not enough to cause a Kneazle heat stroke. _Finite_ them when you read this, all right? _
> 
> __
> 
> _Love you always, Mum."_

  


He crumpled the parchment and stuffed it in the pocket of his jeans, with the few belongings he had packed from Knockturn. His fingers brushed against a scroll of black silk, a memento from _Water_.

The memory of last night would be his and Draco’s alone.

A pair of furry claws tapped and tickled his ankle. A big, fluffy ball of white had been watching him. After a long stare and a few sniffs, the Kneazle jumped into Al’s arms and lapped his face. 

Soft jingles sang its joy. Al felt around the long fur and found a silver bell, tied around its neck with a scarlet bow. 

“Oh I see. Someone's got you a present.” 

Smiling, he pulled out his wand and terminated the warming charms. The morning chill was evidently much missed. The Kneazle leapt out of his arms and jumped onto the broom stand beside the door. The tail of the old Firebolt bent and cracked as it bounded its way to the summit. 

An afternoon should be enough for him to trim away the weathered twigs and weave in some new ones. Every Potter had a soft spot for the Firebolt and Al was no exception. 

Faint noises drifted from the kitchen. Someone had come downstairs and was working the pots and pans. Al’s stomach growled at the thought of eggs and pudding.

His dad wouldn’t mind adding an extra plate for him.

The Kneazle purred and landed on its feet. Al shook off his trainers and pushed the door open.

“Come on, El. It’s time to go home.”

 

_~ Finis_  
  
  



End file.
